#both of them only mentioned by name... for now

[butyoudidthis4what]

Quiet Part 2

Widower!Jack Abbott x Widow Single Mom!Reader

Part 1 can be found here!

23.9k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: DOMESTIC JACK WITH READER'S BABY; Shy!Reader; Jack was in the army; reader's husband was in the army and died while deployed; discussions of loss of spouse; discussion of the death of Jack’s wife; suicidal ideation; briefest mention of thought of murder suicide (NOT directed at reader, in the context of Jack thinking about the guy who killed his wife, literally a single sentence); discussion of Jack’s injury; reference to death of parents (not Jack’s or Reader’s); grief; like lots of grief; guilt; so much fucking guilt for Jack and Reader; self hate for a bit for both Reader and Jack; baby is a boy but is not named; a bird; reference to past pregnancy, labor and delivery; crying; DTR conversation; thoughts about sex; angst; no use of Y/N or related

Summary: You and Jack define your relationship and work through more grief and guilt together.

AN: Twenty years later here we are with Part 2. Sorry about that 😅. Hopefully it was worth the wait. I don't know how I really feel about this (I know exactly how I feel and it's not fantastic but when is it ever). This is different from Part 1 in that there is less time jumping, but I think as they now are truly establishing their relationship and not working towards having one it makes sense. We also see considerably more emotion and grappling from Jack in this part. I considered doing a much more zoomed out kind of story with them but I like exploring emotions and such apparently so I didn't keep it as kind of quick to develop and move through their life as I originally thought I would. I don't know if that's good or bad, but it's reality lol. Again, it's kind of emotional but sweet in the beginning, and middle, but it gets funnier and fluffier (I hope) at the end. Anyway I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading!♥️

“I’m so sorry,” you murmur to Jack as you pull away from him a little. “I really thought I was ready.”

You and Jack have been home for a few hours now, sitting on the couch and starting a new series together. Your son is out hard from his big birthday adventures, didn’t even stir as Jack changed him into some pajamas and put him down for the night while you trimmed the end of the rose Jack gave you and put it in a slim glass vase. 

You’d spent most of your time on the couch leaning against Jack. You like being close to him, like feeling him next to you, warm and sturdy and soft and safe and real and alive. The little voice in the back of your mind telling you this was wrong and to think of your husband was still there, and at times you did feel some confliction, but with the help of your therapist and time that voice had become nothing but a whisper most of the time and more easily dealt with if it got a little louder. 

By the time whatever platform it is asked whether you were still watching Jack had his arm around your shoulders and you were pressed firmly against his side with your head resting against his shoulder and chest, one hand in your lap and the other resting on the lower part of his thigh. You’re in that same position now only you’re both turned in towards each other a bit more and the hand that was in your lap is cupping Jack’s face, your head no longer resting on him. 

When he’d asked if you wanted to watch another episode or head to bed you’d responded by asking to kiss him. Jack had eyed you carefully as he said of course, and that he would like that, but only if you were ready. And you were so sure that you were until you lent in to do it. Hence your apology.

Jack shakes his head a little, leans into your palm where it’s still cupping the side of his face. “Why are you apologizing? It’s okay to not be ready. I’m happy you told me and didn’t push yourself to do something you weren’t ready for. That’s what I want.” 

“No, I know.” You sigh and look down, thumb brushing over Jack’s cheek absentmindedly. “I just feel bad because earlier on our way back I said I was ready for this, for there to be an us, and maybe a little more and now I’m not ready for a little more.”

“I know it’s not easy and me saying this doesn’t make it all better, but please try not to feel bad. It’s okay. And I mean it.” Jack watches you carefully to gauge your reaction and make sure he’s not overstepping as he sets his hand on top of yours and squeezes gently to get you to look at him again. You do, and it hurts him to see how frustrated and upset with yourself you look. He knows how hard this all is. How easy it is to feel like you’re being disloyal. How hard it is to be vulnerable again. He wishes he could make it better for you, take away your struggle because he doesn’t like seeing you struggling and the concomitant hurting. “I’m glad you told me and listened to yourself. I want you to truly be ready for every step of this. I’m not going anywhere just because you say you’re ready for something and then the moment comes and you’re not. You don’t owe me anything, ever.”

“I know,” you mumble, looking away from him. “I just wanted to be ready. I want to kiss you, I really do. I want to give you that, give myself that. I just…” You sigh and pull your hand from his cheek, resting it back in your lap. You’re disappointed in yourself even though you know you shouldn’t be. You did a lot today, gave Jack and yourself a lot. You started a relationship for christ’s sake. You know he has no expectations of you but for some reason you apparently have them of yourself and holding hands and starting this with him and kind of cuddling him on the couch apparently don’t meet them. “I don’t know. I don’t know why it’s so hard.” 

Jack shakes his head slowly. “It was for me too at the beginning. I’m not sure I could articulate why either, but I understand, I promise.”

“I feel like I’ve ruined an otherwise great day.” You look up at him, eyes a little glassy. “And I want this Jack, I’m ready for this. For us to be in a relationship exclusively… for us to be a couple. I want that. A lot.” 

“Hey,” he draws the word out as he tilts his head at you, “you haven’t ruined anything. I promise. I had a great day. The best day I’ve had in a long, long fucking time. I’m really glad you invited me.” He tentatively grabs your hand from your lap and laces your fingers together. “I want that a lot too, to be in a relationship with you, exclusively. To be a couple. So let’s do it, yeah?”

You squeeze his hand, eyes rounded more than usual and brows pulled together. You can’t let go of this undefined concern you have. You’re happy, you genuinely are. Butterflies flutter away in your stomach at the thought of finally being with Jack and at the way he’s looking at you, small, excited smile and sparkling eyes. Like you just gave him some huge gift. It feels like you’ve given him barely anything. “Yeah, let’s do it.” You nod, give him a small smile and laugh a little, almost embarrassed for some reason. Jack is just so handsome and such a good man and you’re having such a vulnerable conversation and admitting your feelings for him. And even though you have before you still find yourself feeling like a teenager almost. “We’re a couple.”

Jack’s smile widens and he nods. “We’re a couple.” He leans forward just slightly before he stops himself. If you were ready he’d have leaned in and kissed you then. And if he’s honest with himself he is disappointed a little bit, but not with you, just that he can’t make you feel good like that, can’t show you how happy he is through a kiss, can’t claim you like that. Because he’s possessive already. He feels it, hard. Harder than he should this early on maybe. 

He looks at you so intensely, is clearly over the moon about this. You don’t realize you’re looking at him the same way, that he can tell how happy you are, how much you want this. 

You groan a little but keep your smile as you let your head fall against the side of his chest. “What?” he laughs softly. He lets his other hand come down and rub your back a little, hyper focused for just a second to gauge your reaction and make sure this is okay. He struggles with the line between asking and trying things because he doesn’t want to make you feel like he’s afraid to touch you, but at the same time he wants to be respectful and not make you uncomfortable.

You shrug against him. “I don’t know. I just feel like… a teenager learning her crush likes her back,” you laugh a little, words slightly mumbled against him. “And I guess I don’t understand it. Why you want me when I come with so much… baggage. And a baby.” 

Jack hums a little and you can feel the vibrations. It makes you shiver. Makes you imagine feeling them in a different context, your head resting on his chest after sex when he hums at something you say or how you run your hand over the part of his chest your head isn’t occupying as you curl into him. “Well, I think our baggage matches. Same pattern, maybe a different color since it’s not exactly the same. Or what is it the youths say these days. Different font.” 

You snort a laugh against him and pull back to look at him. “The youths? Different font?”

“What?” he laughs. “We get a lot of new grads on night shift. They teach me their lingo, keep me up to date and cool.” 

You give him a lopsided smile and tilt your head as you raise your eyebrows slightly. “Lingo?” 

Jack shakes his head. “I never said they were replacing what I grew up with.” He smirks at you. “And back to your point, you come with a baby and I come with baggage and missing a foot with extra trauma and PTSD from that. We all have our things. I want you because you’re beautiful, on the outside yes, but on the inside too. You’re a beautiful person. Caring, selfless to a fault sometimes, giving, funny, adorable, empathetic, so empathetic I know it makes you hurt at times, strong, you have to be the strongest person I know-”

“Jack,” you cut him off, unable to stomach anymore compliments that part of you disagrees with. “Thank you.” You smile and give a breathy laugh. “I’m not sure I understand it still, but… I know how genuine you are.”

He nods slowly. “Can I admit something? It might freak you out and if it does you can tell me to shut up or to leave and never come back-”

“Yes, and I very much doubt I’ll react like that.” You give him a knowing smile. 

Jack grimaces slightly, not quite in disbelief but in a you-haven’t-heard-what-I’m-about-to-say kind of way. He takes a deep breath and then lets it out. “I think we were supposed to meet. I never believed in fate or anything like that but then I saw you,” he shakes his head a little and looks away from you. “I saw you and I was drawn to you. It felt like I was supposed to know you. And then when I walked into the room with you it felt like I’d known you forever. You were familiar. It felt like I knew you’d understand me even if I didn’t know why at the time. And you do. Not just because we’re both widows but,” he shrugs, “you just get me. And I still feel all of that today. I have every day since we met.” 

He forces himself to look back up at you, stomach churning at the thought of seeing your reaction. Because he gets how that sounds, how it could make him look almost obsessive or kind of insane. But you’re just smiling softly at him. And your heart and your mind and your lips ache to kiss him, but you know that emotionally you’re not there. That it would be too much all in one day. 

“I felt the same thing,” you admit. Jack’s eyebrows raise and his head pulls back a little at the shock. He’d felt it in the room that day, like you felt whatever was between the two of you too, but he’d since convinced himself that he was projecting and just wanted you to feel it so he was telling himself it felt like you recognized it too. But you apparently really had. “It kind of freaked me out with how exhausted and scared and emotional I was,” you laugh quietly. “But believe me, I felt it too. Like we were supposed to know each other and were meeting for a reason. And believe me, my therapist and I have talked about it and then some because it was hard for me at first. The idea of this first sight kind of thing.”

“Really?” he whispers. 

“Really.” You nod. You squeeze Jack’s hand and drop your eyes. You hate that you can’t kiss him, don’t understand why you don’t feel ready for that. It’s just a kiss. One that you want. You hate your brain for it, for allowing your grief to still control you. Deep down you know it’s not that easy and you know that the kiss is a big deal because it’s with Jack and it’s going to mean something. It’s going to make you feel so many things. Things you felt for your husband. You need him to know though. That you do want him physically. “I really want to kiss you right now. I just want you to know that. That I do want to kiss you. And want more with you, physically. I wish that I was ready. I wish I could give you more physically so this felt like a real relationship.”

Jack can hear the emotion in your voice. He knows you’re probably closer to tears than you want him to know and that you’re beating yourself up pretty badly inside. He hates it. “Hey,” he says softly, slipping his hand out of yours and using his index finger to tilt your head back up to look at him when you don’t resist. He moves his hand up so that it cups your cheek. “This okay?” His eyes dart around your face looking for any hesitation or sign of distress as you nod and lean into his hand a bit. “First, I think we do more physical stuff than you think. Holding hands. Kind of cuddling on the couch. That’s all physical. But second, and more importantly, the physical stuff isn’t what makes or defines our relationship, yeah? You’re putting too much pressure on yourself I think. Probably being pretty mean to yourself. I don’t need to be able to kiss you to feel like I’m in a real relationship with you. I don’t need anything physical in particular to feel like that. Do you?”

“No.” You shake your head and then shrug a little. “But, I don’t know, I just think that sometimes for men it can be different maybe.”

Jack smiles at you. “Guess I’m not every man,” he teases with a little smirk. His heart soars when it makes you laugh a little. “What I need to know that I’m in a relationship with you is to know that you want to be in one with me, that you consider us to be in one, that you know I’m here for you for anything and everything, that I want you to tell me everything, that you know there is no judgment from me, and that you know that I know the same is true for you towards me. The physical stuff will come with time as you feel more ready. It doesn’t matter how long it takes. I’m content and happy in this relationship just as it is now. I promise. And I meant it too. You don’t owe me anything. You don’t need to give me anything in a physical sense for me to be happy or feel secure in our relationship.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I do, I promise. And I don’t need it to be happy or secure either but I want it. And I know you want it too.”

Jack squeezes your face softly and lets out a breath as he looks away from you for a second. You know he’s conflicted. He knows you know. It’s hard to formulate an answer because the last thing he wants is for you to feel pressure or like he’s just going to be in this relationship waiting around for the day you can kiss and makeout and have sex and then he’ll become really invested. But he also can’t lie to you and say he doesn’t want you. 

He returns his eyes to yours and hopes his reflect how genuine and honest he’s being. “Of course I want it. Of course I want you. Look at you.” Jack’s eyes trail over all of your body he can see in this position and the way he looks at you feels unholy in a way, needy and lusting and reverent. So incredibly reverent. You already know when you do get there Jack is going to worship you. He already looks like he’s ready to get on his knees just for the opportunity to gaze upon you, clothed or unclothed. “I’m not going to lie to you and say I don’t. But I need you to know I’m not going to be in this relationship just sitting around waiting for the day we can do more and have sex and then I’ll become truly invested. I’m all in now. I’m invested in this, in us and our relationship now. Okay?”

“Yes, but, Jack,” you shake your head at him a little, look desperate for him to hear and believe you, “please don’t think I doubted that for a second. Your commitment and investment. That’s not what I meant or how I meant to make it seem because I wouldn’t be ready and I wouldn’t be doing this with you if I felt like that for a second, I promise.”

“Hey, I didn’t think you did,” he soothes, thumb brushing over your cheek. “I just needed to say it for myself and so that you heard it explicitly from me.”

“Okay. Good.” You nod. “Good. I’m sorry, I know I’m making this a big deal and way more complicated and long of a conversation than it needed to be.”

“Please don’t apologize. You’re not doing any of that. We’re just having a conversation and communicating so we both know where we are. That’s healthy. And you voicing your worries and anxieties and your thoughts, that’s important. That’s what I want. I want to hear all of that kind of stuff.” He smiles at you, just a hint of a smirking edge. “I want to be there for my girlfriend, yeah?”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding at girlfriend. You knew that’s what you are, what you defined during this conversation but hearing it is different. It makes your heart race. “Yeah.” There’s barely any substance to the word with how breathed out it is and your reaction to the word makes Jack chuckle to himself a bit. You really are adorable. 

He knows this next question is going to fluster you further, but it’s an important one for him so that he doesn’t cross a line. “If you know, and it’s okay if you need a bit to think about it, how are you feeling about pet names? Being called one.” 

“Oh.” You blink at him. “I um…” You look down at your lap, suddenly even shyer than usual somehow with Jack’s intense gaze flustering you further. You don’t know what you were expecting him to ask but you guess it wasn’t that. It makes your brain a little fuzzier as you try to figure it out. You can’t believe Jack wants to call you a pet name. It’s sweet. And the way he asked and didn’t just do it is even sweeter. Toothache sweet. “Yes, yeah.” You nod at him and clear your throat, looking back into his eyes. “I’m okay with them. I can’t believe you want to call me one,” you laugh softly but incredulously, “but, um yeah. Yeah, I would like that. And you? Would you, or how, how do you feel? About them. Pet names.”

Jack beams at you, nodding a little. “I have to tell you that you’re so adorable when you’re flustered like this. When you get a little shyer on me.” His voice is lower than it normally is and Jack forces himself to keep looking into your eyes and not to glance down at your lips. He lets his words linger for a few seconds before clearing his throat and answering your question. “I would like that too. If you’re ready to use one with me, and it’s okay if you’re not.” You shake your head at him to indicate he doesn’t need to worry about that. That you are ready. 

“You have to tell me the one, though.” You cock your head at him, eyebrows pulling together in confusion. Jack swallows hard, his heart rate picking up. It’s always hard, bringing this side of things up. And he knows it’s liable to send you into a bit of a spiral, to shove your loss and your grief in your face, and on today of all days. He hates it. But not knowing might lead him to inadvertently hurt you worse one day. “The one I’m not allowed to call you because it belongs to you and your husband.” 

“Oh,” you say again, breathe it out this time as your eyes find the folded American flag in its box on display. You didn’t even think about that. And you are so so glad that Jack did because you know if he accidentally called you that one it would have sent you spiraling so hard. Just the question has your mind spinning a little because now it’s like a montage in your head, it’s all you can hear. Your husband calling you Angel. Jack knows what’s happening, what’s playing out in your mind. He recognizes the specific glaze to your eyes. And it’s happening for him too a bit. A montage of his wife calling him Darling. Always Darling. Almost never Jack. 

Jack’s hand pulling away from your face to take your hand again and squeezing it is what brings you back. You bring your eyes back to his. “Angel,” you whisper. 

He nods. “Darling,” he whispers back. You know what he means. That’s his one. 

You feel the tears stinging your eyes but you huff a laugh instead of cry. Jack’s eyebrows raise slightly. “I’m just realizing how fucked up that is. I never thought about it before. Angel. He called me Angel and then he went off and fucking died and became one if you believe in that shit.” You click your tongue behind your teeth as the tears start to fall. Because he died. Because he called you Angel. Because it’s your son’s first birthday and he isn’t here. Because you’re with Jack and you’re happy and it suddenly feels so wrong even though you know it’s what he would want. “Fucking Angel,” you whisper as you devolve into quiet tears. 

You’re not even fully conscious of doing it because it’s just so natural and feels so right. You crawl fully into Jack’s lap and curl into him, one arm wrapping around his neck and your other hand fisting at his shirt as you bury your face in his neck and slowly devolve into quiet and muffled sobs. 

The move shocks Jack into complete stillness for a moment. It’s by far the closest the two of you have ever been, the most physically intimate. And he’s so aware that you’re this close and sobbing into him over your dead husband. He feels responsible for your sobs too. He brought it up, forced you to think about it. He just didn’t want to call you the wrong thing. 

His mind spins as he tries to decide what to do. Is it taking advantage of you and your completely vulnerable state somehow if he reciprocates your touch right now? Do you want his touch? Would it be comforting? Will you think it means something negative if he doesn’t touch you? You wouldn’t have climbed into his lap and be clinging to him if you weren’t okay with him touching you and weren’t seeking out comfort from him, right? 

Jack wraps his arms around you slowly, paying close attention to see if you stiffen even slightly or show some other sign of discomfort. He lets one hand rest on your back and the other over your hair on the back of your head to hold you close. When you cling to him tighter in response he tightens his grip around you in turn, hoping the pressure will help ground you. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know.” 

You hate this. Hate being like this and asking Jack to deal with it and intruding on his space and ruining everything with your tears. But Jack is comfort. He’s your boyfriend now and he understands the reason you’re sobbing, the pain behind it. The grief. You trust him with this side of yourself, want his comforting touch and the grounding he offers even as your heart breaks for your husband and what you lost. You didn’t mean for this to happen and you know Jack feels responsible but it’s not his fault. He didn’t make it happen, didn’t make you feel like this. 

“I’m sorry,” you choke out against his neck in between hiccupped sobs. You immediately feel him shaking his head, hold you a little closer. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” He keeps his voice low, starts rubbing your back. “It’s okay. Let yourself feel it. I’ve got you.” Jack rocks you gently. “Let it all out. I understand. And you’re okay, you’re allowed to feel these feelings with me, okay?”

The way he knows exactly what to say makes you sob harder for a moment as you take every whispered reassurance to heart. “It’s so unfair Jack,” you sniffle against him before letting out a more audible sob, “for both of us, it’s so unfair. I hate it, I hate it so much. And, and I wish I could make it a little better for you like you, like you do for me. I’m so-sorry.”

Jack barely has time to process the stinging in his eyes before tears of his own are sliding down his face. For all of it. For you. For your loss. For his wife. For his loss. For how right you are, how un-fucking-fair the world is. For how you think you don’t make it a little better for him. 

“It is,” he whispers, “it’s so fucking unfair.” Jack takes in his own shuddery breath. “And you do, you do make it a little better. I promise.” He sniffles, goes to kiss the top of your head but stops himself, nuzzles his nose against you instead. 

It takes a bit longer for you to cry yourself out. Jack’s tears stopped well before yours and he never stopped whispering to you, never stopped holding you. Never made you feel like it was too much. Like you were too much. Like he needed this to stop and you to get out of his arms and leave him alone. Never rushed you.

And he keeps holding you once you stop crying, his hand still rubbing your back and the other still holding the back of your head to keep you close to him. You get to a point where you’re mostly quiet, only the occasional sharp stuttery breath. “I’m sorry,” you mumble against Jack’s neck. “That was unfair of me.”

He shakes his head. “No it wasn’t. You needed to let out some emotion. That’s part of what I’m here for, to hold you through that.” 

You shrug in his arms. “I don’t want you to think you caused it. By asking. I’m glad you asked.” You shift a little, pulling your head from his neck and resting the side of it in the crook of his shoulder, his hand on the back of your head quickly wiping the remnants of his tears and then coming down to wrap around you. “I… I don’t even know what that was. Or why it happened. It just does sometimes.” 

“It does for me too,” Jack murmurs. “And you don’t need to know what it was or why it happened. It can just happen.” 

It’s then you can hear the remnants of tears in Jack’s voice and the realization you made him cry is enough to bring you back to the brink of tears. “I’m sorry for making you cry and hurt.” Your whisper is so low he barely catches it. 

“You didn’t,” he says firmly, trying to emphasize that it wasn’t you. “You didn’t anymore than I made you cry and hurt.” He shrugs. “The world did,” he says simply.

There’s a lot more you want to say to that but you don’t. Because it doesn’t really matter at the end of the day. It happened. It’s the past now. You cried clinging to each other on your couch and made it to the other side of that overwhelming grief together. All you want is to be closer to Jack somehow. 

You shift again, pulling your head away from Jack’s body so that you can look at each other, his arms loosening around you automatically so that you’re free to move, to get off him if you want. But you don’t want that. 

“Jack?” Your voice is a little shaky and it feels so dumb to have it be shaky over what you’re about to ask him to do. It’s barely anything but for some reason it feels huge right now.

“Yeah?”

“Will you kiss my forehead?”

His eyebrows raise. It feels huge for him too right now. Almost as intimate as kissing your lips. Jack’s eyes search yours. “You sure?” 

He has to check. Has to make sure you really do want it and are ready for it. You nod, smile at him and his concern and need to check softly. He cares about you so much. Cares about your relationship so much. Doesn’t want to hurt you or ruin anything. “I am. I want it a lot. If you do.”

“Yeah, okay,” he whispers a little breathlessly. “Yeah, I want it too.”

He moves slowly, giving you time to pull away and change your mind. His hands move to your neck, thumbs along your jaw and he nods with slightly raised brows, asking if it’s okay. You nod a little and lean closer into him.

Both your and Jack’s eyes flutter closed when his lips make contact with your forehead. He doesn’t linger with this kiss, just plants a kiss on your forehead and pulls back a bit to see how you react and if you pull away. When he sees a smile ghost your lips and you stay where you are he leans back in for another and lets this one linger, lips pressed to the soft skin of your forehead for a good thirty seconds before he pulls away. 

You let your eyes flutter back open. “Thank you. I, I liked that. If you ever wanted to do it again. That would be okay with me.”

Jack gives you a crooked smile, gaze as intense as ever. “I like that too. And I would like to do it again, yeah.”

You nod at him. “Good,” you whisper. Your eyes leave his and track the tear stains on his cheek and neck until you see the mess of his neck and shirt that you made and cringe. “I’m so sorry I got you and your shirt all snotty and gross.” 

Jack chuckles. “I’m a doctor. That doesn’t phase me for a second. It’s one of the most benign bodily fluids to get on me.”

“Still.” A rather large yawn hits you and you cover your mouth, shaking your head. “I’m so sorry, that just came out of nowhere.” 

Seeing you yawn makes Jack yawn of course and he similarly covers his mouth. “It’s been a long day and crying can make you tired.” Jack lets his hand rest on your hip, watching you intently to see how you react. “You should get to bed and get some sleep as much as I’d love to stay out here and talk with you all night.” He squeezes your hip gently. 

“Probably, yeah.” You yawn again, this one not quite as big. “Definitely, apparently,” you laugh. “You should get some sleep too.”

Jack laughs with you. “Yeah, probably I should.” He offers you his hand to hold as you slide off him and stand up, grabbing the baby monitor. Once you take a step away he stands up behind you, rests his hand on your lower back as he walks you over to your bedroom door. “I had a really great day. Thank you for inviting me to spend it with you. And um,” Jack blushes again and looks away from you for a second. You have to bite your lip at it as you smile because it’s so cute and you can’t believe talking to you, anything related to you, is making him blush. He looks so cute flustered. You get it. Why he said it earlier. “I’m,” Jack clears his throat as he looks back at you, cheeks still a little tinged with pink. “I’m really happy about us.”

You beam at Jack. You know you must look ridiculous, so overly excited and happy. The whole thing is kind of surreal and even though you’re in your house in front of your bedroom door and Jack’s about to walk down the hall and into the guest room it feels like him dropping you off at your front door after a first date. “I am too.” His words echo in your mind and it’s a little bold for you but you’re just following him really. “I have to tell you that you’re so adorable when you’re flustered like this. When you get a little shy on me.”

Jack laughs, shaking his head at you. His blush deepens and you really could scream at how adorable he is. “Yeah, well, you have that effect on me. You wanna talk about feeling like a teenager.” He rolls his eyes at himself playfully. 

“I totally get it,” you giggle. You get slightly more serious, the giggle fading away while the huge, what you’re sure must be at least slightly goofy, smile doesn’t leave your face. Jack’s smiling too though, just as happy and excited as you. “Are you going to tell Robby and Dana?”

“Oh,” Jack scoffs a laugh and runs a hand through his hair. It shouldn’t make your heart stutter the way it does. “I don’t think I’ll even have to. They’ll just know. Just from looking at me the next time they bring you up. Which will be the next time I see them.” He shakes his head at them and then looks back at you, cheeks a little pink again, that boyish, slightly flustered smile gracing his face. “Are you okay if I show them pictures? Of him? And uh, you and him? And all of us?”

“Oh, um, yeah. Yeah, of course.” Now you’re the one flustered thinking about Jack wanting to show you and your son off. 

“Thank you. I know they’ll enjoy seeing him. Anyway,” he nods at you, “I should let you get some sleep.”

“Can we hug?” You blurt out before Jack can say anything else. 

It catches Jack off guard so it takes a second to process, but his smile widens as it does. “Of course we can, if you’re ready for that. I would like that.” 

You nod. “I am. Not really that much different from the couch, is it? Except I won’t be sobbing into you this time.” You laugh breathlessly just at the thought of hugging him and him wanting to hug you. 

“True,” Jack laughs softly with you. “If you need to cry again you can of course. And I’m going to let you lead, okay? Show me how tightly you want it. And if a hand goes somewhere you don’t like or I do something you don’t like please tell me right away.” 

“I will,” you assure him, “but I trust you and I know nothing like that will happen.”

He nods at you and steps closer, holding his arms out a bit so you can wrap yours around him. You hug him tight as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you in close to him. You nuzzle your face against his chest and take in several deep breaths through your nose to savor his scent before resting the side of your head on his chest and enjoying the sound of his heart beating and the feeling of his arms holding you, warm and strong and safe. Half of you wants to ask him for his shirt to sleep in but you know you’re not there, that the smell of another man in your bed would be a little too much for you right now. 

Jack nuzzles his nose in your hair, absentmindedly kisses the top of your head occasionally because he can do that now. And he can tell you like it by the way you squeeze him a little tighter when he does. You feel perfect in his arms and holding you like this makes his heart glow in a way it hasn’t in a long, long time. He feels happy and content in a way he wasn’t sure he would ever feel again after his wife.  

You could both stay like this for hours. But Jack knows you’re exhausted. Knows you have to work tomorrow. He relaxes his arms and pulls away just slightly. It has the desired effect, you look up at him wide-eyed with a small smile, able to guess what’s coming next. 

Jack slides his hands up your sides and then brings them to hold your face gently, smiling down at you like you’re the only thing that exists in this moment. He leans down and presses the softest kiss to your forehead, lets it linger as he tries to use the kiss to say thank you and he’s so happy because of you and he can’t believe you’re his girlfriend and he’ll wait as long as you need and he cares about you and you’re so incredibly important to him. He pulls his lips from your forehead eventually, only to bring them back down and give you a couple more kisses there, letting the last one linger just a little before his lips brush against your skin as he murmurs to you. “Goodnight, Sweetheart.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A day later Jack glances at the baby monitor when he hears your son stir a little. 

He shouldn’t be waking up yet, he didn’t go down that long ago and he is normally a very good napper. A good sleeper in general. True to form he just shifts around a little and then is back out. 

It makes Jack smile and laugh to himself as he resumes doing the dishes. Almost everything is in the now-running dishwasher but there are a few things that can’t go in and he’s giving your son’s highchair tray a good scrub. 

It’s Friday and Jack’s on a solid string of off days and so is home with your son. A kid at daycare is sick and honestly, Jack just likes being with your son, and so anymore it’s more common for your son to be with Jack than at daycare when Jack is off. You’re both looking forward to having the weekend together, especially now that you’re together. It’ll be your first weekend as a couple. You have absolutely no plans, but both of you kind of like that. 

As he scrubs Jack tries to formulate a plan to get you to let him take the monitor tonight so that he can get up with your son and you can sleep in tomorrow. He knows you’re going to fight him on it, but he wants to do it for you. He’ll just have to make sure he’s the one who grabs it when you guys get up to go to bed. 

The thought crosses his mind that maybe it’ll be a moot point. Maybe you’ll invite him to sleep in your bed with you. Just to sleep and be close, not for anything else and not even naked. But that thought quickly morphs into kicking himself mentally, asking himself why the actual fuck he’s thinking about that when you aren’t even ready to kiss and have been a couple for less than 24 fucking hours. 

He knows it’s because he wants that closeness with you. Wants to basically hug you all night. He would absolutely never pressure you into doing so, it’s just why he’s thinking about it. Thinking about your warm skin against his, your breathing slow and soft as you sleep curled into him, the little sounds you’d make in your sleep, how peaceful you’d look, and god the sound of your sleepy voice in the morning, spoken more into his chest than anything as you nuzzle against him and try to hide from the light and ask for five more minutes. 

No. Just no, Jack tells himself. He needs to stop. It feels wrong on so many levels to think about you like that, even though it’s not sexual. If only Jack knew the way you were miles away daydreaming in your office about effectively the same thing and about kissing him. 

He turns his thoughts elsewhere. What to make for dinner. He likes cooking for you and your son. He likes watching your face when you take first bites and is borderline addicted to the smiles you give him, the soft hums you give him that are really almost moans when you particularly like something, the praise of ‘this is amazing Jack’ and ‘god you really outdid yourself tonight’ and ‘fuck that’s good’ and ‘you spoil me’ and ‘this is incredible Jack, thank you for cooking’ you give him. 

But what to make? He could do something he’s made before and knows you like. He could try something new. Or you could get takeout. Make it kind of a mini-date at home. He knows your favorite places and dishes by now and he could wait until you get home to order, ask what place you’d prefer. Depending on how long your son naps and what kind of mood he’s in the three of you could potentially go out somewhere. But you did that last night. So maybe him making something is actually better. So he circles back to the question. What to make?  

While he’s letting ideas for dinner percolate in the back of his mind he thinks about how he needs to set up something so that you can meet Robby and Dana. He wants you to meet them of course but they’re also the two best potential babysitters if you end up liking them and feeling like you can trust them. And you’re going to need one if he’s going to ever be able to take you out on a real date. He loves doing stuff as the three of you, yes, but he still wants to date you. Just you. Do something with you that you guys couldn’t do with your son. Focus on each other.

Jack knows it’ll be hard for you to leave your son and he’s not going to force the issue of course, but he hopes that having a nurse or a doctor as a sitter will help allay at least some of your fears. He should probably think of a good date idea before bringing it up though. 

What if he had you cook with him tonight? If you wanted. Almost like a little cooking class date, just at home. You always talk about wanting to become a better cook. That could be fun right? Your son could watch from his highchair or Jack could baby-wear him with a wrap or the carrier. Depending on how late you get home and how early your son goes down for the night and how late you’re okay eating your son might even be asleep by then. Unlikely but not impossible. 

As he finishes the dishes he decides that he’ll go pick something to make and get a list of things to buy at the store. Then once your son is awake from his nap and maybe had a snack they can walk to the store together, maybe drive depending on how much is needed. 

Jack grabs the clean dish towel to dry his hands. And that’s when he realizes it. When he feels it. Or rather doesn’t feel it. His eyes snap to his left hand. 

No wedding ring. 

Jack’s stomach drops, fingers and toes going cold while adrenaline floods his system and shoves him right into fight or flight, breathing and heart rate picking up. He spins back to the sink, praying that he’ll find his ring resting in the sink or on the grate of the one side and that it didn’t slide down into the pipe on the garbage disposal side. Or that he didn’t lose it somewhere else and is just now noticing. How could he have not fucking noticed the second it came off?

A short burst of relief floods him when he finds it sitting against the grate. He’s quick to pick it up and hold it in the palm of his hand, stare down at it. He still can’t believe himself. That he didn’t feel it when it came off. He knows he was in his head and thinking but still. That’s his wedding ring. That’s her. One of a few things he has left of her and it came off and he didn’t feel it. The ring he’s worn every day for how many years now? And he didn’t fucking feel it come off. He’s the worst, his brain tells him as he slips into mentally berating himself. 

And the thing is, Jack has known he needs to take off his ring, especially now that you’re ready and in a relationship and together. He’s been mentally preparing for it and thinking about it. He’s been trying to work his way up to it. He was hoping to do it this weekend at some point. 

He never expected to not have a choice. For it to slip off while doing the dishes. He’s been doing the dishes for the past five years, scrubbing his hands at work for the past five years and nothing. It never came off. And he knows he does have a choice. He knows he could slip it back on right now. 

But instead he just stares at it in his palm. 

He doesn’t know what to do. It needed to come off. But he wanted to take it off. Have it be an intentional thing. Be talking to her in his mind when he did it, reassuring himself and her that it’s not that he doesn’t love her anymore because he does, he always will. And instead it came off and he didn’t notice. What does that tell her? But if he puts it back on how long will it be until he can bring himself to take it off again? Was he ever really going to work up to taking it off or did something like this need to happen? Is this a sign from the universe? Did it happen on purpose?

A tapping sound on the glass of the window behind the sink interrupts Jack’s thoughts. He looks up and there’s no fucking way this is real. A bird is there on the windowsill looking back at him and tilting its head back and forth at him how birds do. It’s not just any bird though. 

It’s a mourning dove. His wife’s favorite. 

The irony of the name was not lost on him the first time he saw one after she died. It was years ago. Five and a bit years ago. At her funeral. One had landed on her casket and Jack had come a little unglued for a minute, ended up squeezing Robby’s forearm so tight it was bruised for a couple of weeks. 

Since then they’ve become a little thing for him. He tells himself it’s silly, but he feels like they’re her in a way. A kind of manifestation of her spirit visiting him. Because he’s only seen them a few times since then and each of those times has been poignant. A couple of times when he visited her grave. A few times on the roof at work when his feet got a little too close to the ledge. Once after he kissed a woman other than her for the first time after her death. And now that he really thinks about it he realizes that one landed on the ground in front of him as he waited to cross the street on his way to work on the day he met you. 

He looks back down at his wedding ring and picks it up with his right hand, holds his left hand out as he thinks about putting it back on. More tapping on the glass and that familiar coo has him focusing back on the dove. It’s beautiful. Just like she was. It has a unique line of black feathers just above one of its eyes. It makes the usual blue ring that circles a mourning dove’s eye pop even more. 

It has to mean something, Jack tells himself. Except that’s crazy, right? It’s just a bird on a windowsill. It doesn’t mean it’s her visiting and trying to tell him something.

Jack stares back at it. It feels like a sign. All of it. His ring slipping off while doing the dishes at your house when it hasn’t before in over five years of doing dishes. The dove appearing. It feels like her telling him that it’s okay. It’s okay to not wear his ring. It’s okay to be with you. It feels like her blessing. 

He closes his right hand around his ring and the dove looks at him for a few more seconds, gives him a couple more coos before it flies off leaving Jack standing there trying to process everything that’s happened in the last five minutes. But then his mind goes blank for a moment and there’s nothing but the feeling of his wedding ring pressing into the palm of his right hand. 

Jack’s turning so his back is against the base cabinets as he slides to the floor, tears blurring his vision as it slams into him and consumes him. The memory of that ring going on his finger. Her face and how excited she was. How beautiful she looked in her white dress with that veil. How she could barely get her vows and the ring exchange out, not from tears but from giggles. How her it was. How she held onto his finger once she slid his ring on. How she didn’t let go until the very end of the ceremony when she could finally hold his face as they kissed for the first time as husband and wife. How she was obsessed with his left hand all night, constantly holding it and running her fingers over his ring. How she kissed it that night in bed. 

Jack doesn’t even realize how hard he’s sobbing as he clutches his right hand and ring to his chest, right over his heart. It all replays for him. How they met. Their first date. Their second date. Their first kiss. Their first time. Leaving for his first deployment while they were together. Coming back and her running and jumping into his arms, refusing to leave them all night. 

Getting to be home and spend time with her. All the things they did together in between deployments. Going abroad. Hiking. Renting a cottage on the beach in Connecticut for a weekend. Making dinner at home together. Fun dates. Their sadness when he found out he was being deployed again. Her tears when she had to hug him goodbye. His promise he’d come back to her.

An IED. Physical pain indescribable until the adrenaline fully hit as he tried to save the others around him. Looking down and realizing his foot was gone. 

Waking up in Germany. Waking up at Walter Reed to her asleep in a chair next to his bed. Surgeries. Moving to a hospital in Pittsburgh. Physical therapy. Depression. Finding his therapist. Her right by his side through it all. A prosthetic. An honorable discharge. Her being more than he could ever deserve as he struggled to adjust.

Medical school. Medical school graduation. The pride in her eyes and how tight she hugged him and her breath against his ear as she whispered how proud she was of him. Residency. 

Him picking out her engagement ring. Planning the proposal. Proposing. Wedding planning during residency. Their whole wedding. Their honeymoon. Their talks of kids and a house in the suburbs. Her saying how she wanted a group of little boys that were all the spitting image of their father. Plans to start trying once he became an attending.

Becoming an attending. Deciding not to actively try but more to just not prevent and see what happened for a bit. The death of her mom hitting her hard and putting the brakes on kids for a bit. Holding her as she cried. Helping her plan a funeral. Things slowly getting better. The death of her dad just a year later understandably obliterating it all. Holding her as she cried again. Helping her plan another funeral. Things slowly getting better again.

Deciding to actively try and track her cycle. An emergency medicine and trauma conference in Vegas. Hugging and kissing her goodbye at the airport. Dreaming of her surprising him with a ‘welcome home daddy’ sign when he got back. 

That phone call from Robby as he laid in his hotel bed reading some materials from one of the presentations. 

Denial. Numbness. Yelling at Robby that this wasn’t even close to a funny joke. The slow realization it was the truth. A drunk driver had taken her from him almost instantly but the driver got to walk away with a couple of bruises and a broken arm.

Robby getting him a ticket on the next plane home. Crying silently in that hotel bed because this couldn’t be real. Finally feeling it and sobbing in an airport bathroom with the sound of slot machines in the background. 

The blur of getting back home and Robby being there. Robby telling him the details of what happened and her injuries after he demanded them through a yell when Robby tried to tell him he didn’t need to know, that it wouldn’t make a difference and would just torture himself. Jack screaming at Robby and blaming him for not saving her when Jack knew based on what Robby told him that she was effectively DOA. That there was no hope of her surviving. That if the paramedics hadn’t happened to recognize her as his wife she almost certainly would’ve been pronounced on the scene and never even brought in. Dana grabbing him in the tightest hug as his screams turned into sobs, choked apologies and thank you for trying-s to Robby and asking what he was supposed to do.

Considering killing himself. Considering killing the driver that hit her and then killing himself. 

Planning her funeral. Seeing her again for the first time in her casket. Feeling a pain so deep and a grief so profound he was sure he would drop dead. Her funeral. Trying to give a eulogy. The dove. Watching her be lowered into the ground. Feeling like the photo of her to the side of her casket was mocking him. Feeling like a piece of shit for feeling that. The celebration of life after. Spending too much time comforting other people as they came up to him and apologized for his loss and talked about her. 

All consuming depression. Not leaving his bed for days. Laying on his side and looking at her pillow and crying because he was looking at her pillow and not her face. Because he’d never look at her face like that again. He’d never have her laying in bed with him again.

Slowly coming out of the depression. Finding a new normal. Deciding to live for her as much as it hurt. Working at the Pitt. Things getting better and life and himself feeling stable. Visiting her grave. The years eventually blurring together as he falls into a routine and goes to work and comes home and listens to the scanner and sleeps and goes back to work again. Some dates and casual flings, brief romances. Nothing serious. They grow fewer and farther between.  

And then Jack hits meeting you and his mind stops. 

The sobs don’t. The way he rocks himself slightly in an attempt to self soothe doesn’t. The choked out apologies to her for everything don’t. The way it feels like he’s right back there, on the day he lost her and the day he saw her in her casket doesn’t. The guilt he suddenly feels for being with you doesn’t. The guilt he feels for his wedding ring falling off and him not noticing while he was doing your dishes, washing your child’s highchair tray doesn’t. The ache that fucking dove and what felt like her blessing put in his heart doesn’t. 

Missing her so badly he can’t breathe doesn’t. But neither does his want and need and affection for you. 

Jack hasn’t cried like this in a good while. Hasn’t felt everything all over again and watched his entire life with her and the aftermath play out in his mind in even longer. And he doesn’t understand, or maybe isn’t letting himself understand, why he feels so sad and so guilty and why he had to replay everything in his mind. Why he’s still fucking sobbing and clutching his ring so hard it’ll take hours if not a full day for the indent it leaves behind to fade. 

Deep down Jack knows it’s a form of processing. He knows his ring coming off is a huge thing for him and he knows that’s okay and that this reaction is okay. He and his therapist have talked at length and repeatedly, especially recently, about his possible reactions to taking it off. But he didn’t really take it off, did he?

His sobs taper off as exhaustion hits and he runs out of tears. But his feelings don’t stop. He’s a storm of emotions, has guilt in every direction possible. He hits that numbness that accompanies exhaustion though and it’s a nice change, not feeling every emotion even as he knows he still has them. His head feels fuzzy and it gets harder to think.

Jack lets his head fall back against the cabinet and closes his eyes. It quickly becomes apparent to him though that if he stays here he’ll fall asleep here. So he forces himself up and to the guest bed, pretty much just flops onto it, head barely hitting a pillow. He looks at his ring for a few seconds before his eyes start to close, curls his hand back around it and brings it back close to heart as he falls into a deep sleep.

He wakes hours later to the sound of crying. It’s not a screaming cry like something is wrong or your son is deeply upset but still. It takes him a minute to come back to fully, to remember what happened, to remember the thing he’s still clutching in his right hand is his wedding ring. Jack rolls onto his back and runs his left hand over his face and through his hair to try and fight off the remnants of sleep. And he feels it of course, the lack of it, no metal ring gliding over his skin. 

As he sits up he opens his hand to look at his ring. He feels so fucking melodramatic now. It’s a ring. She’s been dead for over five years. It should have come off a long time ago. It’s not like he has to get rid of it. He just won’t be wearing it anymore. And yet he can’t let go of all those emotions. 

He goes to grab the baby monitor from the nightstand, vaguely wondering why the volume is turned so low but it’s not there. He’s confused for a minute but then it hits him. He left it by the sink. Your son was so quiet and he was so exhausted when he forced himself off the kitchen floor that he just left it there. So who fucking knows how long your son has been awake and crying. After it processes completely it jolts him awake, has him setting his ring on the nightstand and all but running to your son’s room, berating himself further the entire way. 

Jack cannot believe he did that. Forgot the monitor. Left your son nearly alone effectively. Him crying is bad enough but what if something had happened? What if he had started choking? What if someone had broken in? What if he’s been in there for fucking hours crying so long he’s going to get sick now? What if you’d come home to Jack passed out in bed and your son crying? How could you ever forgive him? Ever trust him again? More guilt surges through him and it’s enough to make him teary again because you trust him with your son and he forgot the monitor and your son is one and won’t understand why nobody came for him. Why Jack didn’t come for him. Why Jack left him in there crying alone. 

“Hi Baby,” Jack calls to your son as he opens the door and flicks the light on. “I’m so sorry Bud. I hope you weren’t in here upset for too long.” Your son starts to calm the second he hears Jack’s voice and sees him, small arms reaching up towards Jack asking to be picked up. The big alligator tears rolling down his face make Jack’s heart ache as he picks him up, chubby hands grabbing at Jack’s shirt while Jack settles him against his chest. 

Jack bounces slightly, cupping the back of your son’s head with the hand not holding him, thumb brushing back and forth soothingly. “I’m so sorry Honey.” He turns his head and kisses your son’s temple a few times. He’s stopped crying, he did pretty much as soon as he was in Jack’s arms, just the occasional sniffles and small hiccupped breaths as he settles back down. “I’ve got you. I’m sorry, I really am, and I’m here now, I’ve got you.” 

He settles into the rocking chair that’s there in the nursery and rocks with your son, presses a few more kisses to his head, breathing in the scent of baby shampoo. It calms him. Jack keeps whispering to your son, that he’s sorry and he’s here and everything’s okay and he’ll never do that again. Jack glances at his watch. It hasn’t actually been that long, really it’s been about the length of time your son usually naps for, so it’s unlikely he was crying for that long, right? Unless today was the day he couldn’t sleep and woke up earlier. There’s no way to know and Jack hates it, can only hope he woke up quickly and as soon as your son started crying. 

Your son rests quietly on his chest, hand playing with Jack’s shirt a bit to keep himself occupied, cooing and babbling to himself a little occasionally. It’s comforting, holding him like this and rocking. Jack knows he’s doing this more to soothe himself than your son who’s pretty much completely unbothered now. 

Jack thinks about what precipitated his passing out without the monitor as he holds your son close, namely his ring and the dove. 

Jack knows it was some kind of sign from her and the universe. The whole thing. He doesn’t care how it sounds. He knows it was her blessing. Her way of telling him she’s happy for him and he should be happy too and not feel guilty. And he wishes his guilt could be erased that easily, by a dove and his ring coming off. But it can’t. And it lingers. And Jack is so glad he has someone who understands and won’t hold it against him. Because he’s sure he won’t be out of this funk by the time you get home.    

Even though he knows you’ll understand and won’t hold it against him he still hates that he’s going to be a bit off with you, especially when you just started your relationship officially yesterday. Yes, you cried into him last night from grief but it feels different. Jack brought up pet names and asked a question specifically about your husband. That made you think of your husband. This is his ring falling off. Something that needed to happen anyway. His reaction could easily make it seem like he’s not ready for this or isn’t fully ready to commit to you and let her go in a way. And he doesn’t want you to think that because it’s not true. He is ready for this, he wants this with you so badly, wants you and he is ready to commit to you. He’s been ready and patiently waiting for you. 

He knows he needs to try and get out of his head. Your son starting to chew on his shirt pulls him out of his thoughts. 

“You hungry, little man? Want a snack? A real one, because my shirt isn’t going to do much for you.” Jack looks down at your son and pulls him away from his chest gently. “No it’s not,” he says in a bit of a baby voice, smiling and shaking his head at your son. “It can’t taste very good either.” 

Your son giggles up at Jack at his voice and the way he shakes his head, hands reach for Jack’s face. Jack playfully takes one of your son’s hands and brings it up, mouths at it and makes fake eating noises just to pull more laughter. Jack releases the hand and brings your son up a little closer, leans into him and kisses at his cheeks dramatically, tickling his face with his stubble and his hand on your son’s tummy. It earns him more pealing laughter and makes him smile widely at your son. He loves making your son laugh, could spend all day making him laugh. He loves making your son happy and hearing your son’s laugh helps him, makes him happier and relax a bit. It’s damn near audible serotonin. 

Your son’s eyes shine and he looks so happy, like Jack’s the best thing in the whole world and Jack doesn’t feel like he deserves it in the moment. But he tries to shove that aside to just focus on your son. Your son seems to love eye contact as much as Jack does so it’s easy to catch his gaze and talk to him softly, earnestly, almost achingly so. “I love you Honey, so so much. I hope you know that.”

And he does. Jack loves your son like he’s Jack’s own. Jack, like you, would walk straight into a burning building and through flames for him, would jump in front of a car for him, anything, without a second thought, he’d just do it. Instinctually. And if, god forbid, something ever happened to your son, Jack would bleed himself dry donating his O- blood to your son if that’s what was needed. 

Your son babbles at him in response, smiling at Jack and laughing while clapping his hands. Jack laughs with him and then sighs contentedly. “Alright, you. Let’s get you changed and then get a snack and text mommy and we’ll figure out the rest after, okay?”

Jack’s quick to get your son changed and out to the kitchen, turning off the monitor where it sits by the sink and shaking his head at himself. He’s nervous about telling you, about your reaction. He’d understand if you didn’t trust him with your son anymore, if it somehow ruined things. He just really hopes you still will trust him and nothing is ruined. He can pretty much assure you he’ll never do it again.

Once he has your son squared away with a snack and some water in his highchair Jack sits at the table next to him and texts you. Not telling you what happened never even crossed his mind. He debates calling you instead but he doesn’t want to interrupt your workday more than he has to.  

J - I’m so so sorry. I fell asleep and accidentally left the monitor in the other room. I woke up to him crying and I have no idea how long he was crying for. He calmed as soon as I picked him up and is okay now. Having a snack and some water. But I totally get if you don’t trust me with him anymore and don’t want me watching him by myself anymore. I’m so sorry

Jack stares at his phone waiting for your reply. He knows you’re at work and busy and it might be a bit before you even see that he texted you let alone have the time to read his message and reply. And he knows you might not even want to reply. He’s just praying that you give him something so he knows that you know what happened. 

You do. You don’t even take that long all things considered, it’s only a minute or so before those three dots appear. 

You - Hey, it’s okay, you have nothing to apologize for. I’ve done the same thing more than once, I promise

You - All that matters is he’s okay. Not surprised he calmed down as soon as you picked him up, he’s so enamored with you! 

You - And of course I still trust you with him. I’ve seen you with him and how aware of him you are and how in tune, so if I had to bet, I’d say he wasn’t crying long at all before it woke you up. And even if he had been crying for a while, it’s okay. I’d still trust you. Like I said, I’ve done it before more than once. It’s just one of those things that happens. Especially if you need a nap just as bad as he does!

Jack lets out a sigh of relief reading your texts. His head is still a fucking mess from everything and he hasn’t forgiven himself for this, he’s just so good at compartmentalizing it’s all in a box on a shelf to deal with later. 

J - Okay. I really am sorry though and I can pretty much guarantee you it won’t happen again

You reply quickly. 

You - It’s really okay, try not to feel bad about it. I know it’s not that easy but just know that I’m not upset or anything 

A few seconds later before Jack can respond there’s another message from you. 

You - You otherwise okay? 

Of course you’d pick up on it and know. Of course you’d worry about him. It makes Jack feel so good to know there’s someone out there who cares about him that much, who he’s that important to in a non-platonic sense. But at the same time part of him hates that he didn’t hide it better, that he’s worrying you and burdening you with himself. 

J - Yeah, just been a day kind of

J - Mentally. Nothing to do with him

He glances up at your son as he waits to see if you reply. “Good stuff?” he laughs, your son having devoured the cheerios Jack gave him. “Want some more?” Your son giggles and claps a bit as Jack pours some more out for him. “You’re the best, you know that Bud?”

You - I’m sorry, Jack. We can talk tonight if you want but don’t have to of course. Just know I’m here for you for whatever. I think I’ll probably be able to leave a little early today too

Jack bites his lip. He doesn’t know if he wants to talk about it, or how much he wants to talk about it. 

J - I know. And okay but don’t rush home on my account 

He sets his phone off to the side and turns his focus back to your son, scooting a bit closer to him. “Oh, thank you,” Jack chuckles when your son offers him a cheerio in his tiny pincer grasp and Jack lets him feed it to him, much to your son’s delight. He does it a few more times and Jack takes every cheerio offered until the two of them have eaten them all. 

Jack takes your son to the living room, sets him down on the floor and gets down to play with him. If you end up being able to leave work a bit early it really won’t be too long before you’re home. 

Playing with your son is a good distraction until it’s not and the walls of the box he’d put everything in start to crumble and all his feelings and guilt from earlier flood his mind. Jack’s at least able to focus on both your son and those feelings at once, not outwardly showing any distress or being off with your son or suddenly less interactive. The feelings just eat away at him inside. The guilt. 

Jack’s not even that aware of time passing until he hears your key in the door. “Hi!” you call out as you walk in and set your stuff down, kick out of your shoes. You’re glad to be home and done with the week and so excited to have a weekend with Jack. You walk into your living room and smile at the sight of Jack and your son on the floor together playing. 

“Hey,” Jack calls back. He lowers his voice as you walk into the room. “Who is that?” he asks your son, “Mommy home?” Your son claps and gets excited, starts to crawl over to you but doesn’t get super far. ���How was your day?” 

“Oh you know,” you sigh. “Work.” Jack laughs softly. “How was your guys’ day?” You walk over to pick up your son. He’s still close to Jack and without even being fully conscious of it you run a hand through Jack’s hair affectionately before grabbing your son, picking him up and peppering his face with kisses, cooing at him softly that you missed him and you love him and did he have a good day with Jack.

Jack clears his throat as he stands up and walks over to sit on the couch. “Oh you know,” he repeats your words with a similar sigh, only his has an edge to it that concerns you. “You know.” 

You turn to really look at Jack as he sits on the couch and he hates the way your face drops when you see him. You can tell he cried at some point today and you’re guessing it happened before he fell asleep without the monitor. Your brows furrow together, eyes widening slightly in concern. Jack shakes his head and sighs, ready to apologize for ruining your mood and Friday night. But you speak first. 

“Jack?” You walk over and sit on the couch with your son on your lap near him, but leave a cushion between you in case he wants space. You’re worried about him, quite a lot. You’ve never seen him look this sad and almost lost. “What’s wrong honey?” 

Jack isn’t sure how to even begin to answer because it feels so ridiculous. You’ve had your rings off for a long time. He bets you weren’t like this when you took them off. And even if you were it was so close to when he died and you were pregnant. 

Jack doesn’t know what to say so he doesn’t say anything and just holds up his left hand. Your eyes slowly leave his and move to his hand. It doesn’t take you long to notice. And Jack can see it on your face the second you realize. Your eyes go back to his. 

“You took your wedding ring off.”

Jack brings his hand down and sighs, shaking his head. “I didn’t really take it off so much as it fell off while I was doing the dishes.” He looks down at his hand. “It’s on my nightstand, it didn’t get lost in the pipes or anything. I just…” He shrugs. He wants to look back up at you but he can’t bring himself to for some reason. “I didn’t expect it. I’ve done the dishes for over five years, scrubbed my hands at work and it never came off. But today it did. And the worst part is I didn’t even notice when it did. I didn’t realize it until I was drying my hands.”

You’re quiet as you try to think of what to say, what you would want to hear if you were in Jack’s position. And you’re trying to shove the massive guilt that’s hit you aside because this isn’t about you. This is about Jack. But if he hadn’t been doing your and your son’s dishes his ring wouldn’t have come off. It feels like it’s your fault somehow. 

“I… Jack I’m so sorry you didn’t get to do it on your own terms.” You want to move closer to him, rest your hand on him and squeeze reassuringly or hold his hand. But you’re not sure if he’d want that. “You can put it back on, Jack. If you need to or want to. That’s okay.”

Jack had a feeling you’d say that. And he can see in the way you shift a little that you want to be closer to him but aren’t sure if he’d want that. He’s not really sure either now that you’re talking about what happened and it’s all that’s in his mind again. “No.” He shakes his head. “No, it needed to come off. My therapist and I have talked about it. A lot,” he laughs dryly. He forces himself to look at you. “Especially recently, because it’s not fair to you. For us to be together and me to be wearing her ring-”

You’re shaking your head as he speaks and you have to interrupt him. “It’s not unfair to me Jack. It’s just not about fairness in general. I get it, you know I do.” And you do. But you can’t lie to yourself and say it wouldn’t be a little hard to see him put it back on, date him while he wears her ring. You’d never say that though and you imagine you don’t really have to. That Jack just knows because he can put himself in the same position. “If you’re not ready to have it off Jack, that’s okay. I promise.” And you do promise, because even if he did put it back on you would be okay with it even if it was a little hard. 

“I am. It’s been over five years. It needed to come off, truly. It was time.” You can see his eyes get a little glassy and it makes your heart ache for him. You know he must have sobbed about it and you hate that he was alone. Because you know what it’s like. You know what it’s like to suddenly no longer have your wedding ring on and be alone when it happens. You have no idea if he’d have wanted you around when he did it but at least he could have had the option. “I was thinking about it anyway. I was going to try to do it this weekend.” Jack bites his trembling lip and looks down for a moment before looking back up at you, the tears now visible in his eyes. “I just thought I’d get to do it. That it would be this intentional thing and I could talk to her while I did it, you know?”

You let out a shuddery breath and feel tears prick the back of your eyes. “Yeah,” you whisper, “I know. And I’m so sorry you didn’t get that Jack.”

Jack takes a breath and shrugs at you, all the emotion disappearing from his face for a second leaving him stone faced. “Stop apologizing. You have nothing to apologize for.” Jack’s eyes fall down to your son as he starts to babble and wiggle against you more before Jack can see your slight flinch at his words. His tone was sharper than he meant or realized. Colder. He almost sounded annoyed. 

You swallow hard. Both of you knew there would be some really difficult moments during your relationship. Days where the grief was all-consuming and the guilt eating you alive. You just didn’t expect one quite this early on while things are still so new. It’s okay that it is one, just unexpected. “Okay, I’m-” You stop yourself before you apologize again and Jack knows it, looks up at you and gives you the smallest amused smile. It falls quickly though when he sees how upset you are. He hates that he’s the cause. “I, you, um,” you let out a breath, “you’re of course welcome to stay here, always Jack, I hope you know that. And I’m here for you and this if that’s what you need. If you want to talk about, or be close or whatever it is that would help you. I don’t want it to sound like I want you to leave. Of course I’d like you to be here but more than that I want whatever you need and is best for you. I just, it’s also okay if you need to go home, Jack. Be alone and have some time to yourself. Time with her. Go visit her, maybe, if you think that would help.”

You look down at your son while you give Jack time to think, shift him on your lap a little and bounce him on your legs, earning you some squealing laughter. 

“Maybe,” Jack finally says. “I don’t know.” He’s not sure what would be better. The thought of being home and alone with his thoughts sounds awful. But maybe some of the guilt would pass if he wasn’t here with you as terrible as he knows that sounds and is. He doesn’t know. His brain just doesn’t know. He’s paralyzed in a way he hasn’t been in a long time. 

“That’s okay, it’s okay to not know.” You glance around the room as you keep bouncing your knees for your son. You’re trying to think of anything that might help him. Emotionally or just help him figure out what he wants and needs. “He and I can go into my room and give you some space, or go take a walk if that would help?”

Jack shakes his head, frowning at the ideas. “No. This is your house. I’m not confining you to a room in your own house or making you leave.”

“You’re not making me do anything Jack, I’m offering.”

“No.” He’s firm in his answer. “Maybe,” he swallows hard, “maybe I should go for a walk.” He’s not sure if being alone with his thoughts is a good idea but maybe a walk would at least clear his mind a bit. But he also feels bad about it, like he’s just leaving you as soon as he’s struggling with grief. He knows it’s a little more than just normal struggling, but still. He doesn’t want to be that guy, doesn’t want you to feel like you don’t help or he doesn’t want your comfort. 

You’re quiet for a moment, looking down at your son and pulling him up when he wants to stand and bounce on your legs. He’s getting close to walking. You’re not upset that Jack wants to leave and needs space, you’re not sad or hurt. It’s not that. You’re worried because you know how hard it is. How one thing in particular can seem like the best answer.

“Jack,” you whisper, force yourself to look at him so he understands your question. “Are you going to come back?” He nods. Jack understands what your question means. Is he suicidal. He hadn’t even thought about it really. It hadn’t crossed his mind as something to do now, largely, he thinks, because he has you and your son. But Jack hates the fact that he made you worry like that. About losing someone else. “Because you really need to come back, Jack.” You’re still whispering. “Even if it’s not to me.” 

Somehow Jack’s heart breaks a little more. “Hey,” he says softly, tilting his head at you. He reaches out and rests a hand just above your knee. “I didn’t even think about that. I’m going to come back, Sweetheart. To you.” He squeezes your thigh as he speaks, hoping his touch and the honesty he’s trying to project through his eyes will reassure you. “I think I should just try a walk and see if it clears my head or helps me decide what I want to do.”

You nod at him. “Okay. I hope it’ll help.” Jack nods at you and you let out a small breath as he gets up and makes his way to the front door. “Just, um, take your phone? Please. And be safe.” 

Jack smiles at you, lets out the softest laugh through his nose. “I’ve got it, yeah. And I will be.” He turns and rests a hand on the door handle but then turns back to you. “I don’t want you to think this means I’m not ready, or that I can’t be in a relationship with you. Because it doesn’t. I just didn’t expect it and-”

“Hey,” you cut him off gently, “I think a really big and meaningful thing on the grieving the loss of a spouse, I don’t know, checklist, for lack of a better word, happened unexpectedly today and so you’re having a really bad grief day. That’s okay. Those days will happen for both of us. And if on your walk you realize you aren’t ready or can’t be in a relationship with me that’s okay too.”

“I won’t.” He shakes his head. “Because even with all these thoughts and feelings and whatever else right now I feel ready and I want to be in a relationship with you. I just need to try and work it out in my head.” Jack takes in a shuddery breath. He feels like such an asshole for doing this to you. “I’m sorry for dumping all of this and then running.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Jack. I don’t feel like you’re dumping anything. Or like you’re running.” You give him a small smile. “You’re taking a walk to clear your head. That’s healthy.”

“I’ll be back tonight. Even if I decide I need to spend some time at my place, okay?”

You nod at him and he turns back and opens the door, stepping out and locking it behind him so you don’t have to get up. You straighten out on the couch so that you’re facing the TV, holding your son close just like Jack did earlier in the day but letting him stay standing on your legs. 

You hate yourself for it but you start crying. Of course you start crying. You feel like you’re totally usurping Jack’s grief and feelings or using them and him somehow but you can’t stop the tears even as your son bounces on you and giggles. They’re not even for yourself, not really. They’re for Jack and how fucking badly you know he’s hurting right now, how much he’s missing her, how guilty in every way he’s feeling, how conflicted he is. Because you’ve been there since you met him. More than once. And you understand. You know your situations aren’t identical and you’d never say you understand perfectly or completely know what he’s going through but on a fairly deep level you understand. You know the emotions and how easily they can swallow you. You cry because you care so much about Jack and hate that he’s hurting and that you can’t do anything to make it better. 

Jack has no idea where he’s walking to. He considered your suggestion for a moment, going to see her. He knows that’s a kind of fucked up luxury he has. He can just go and visit her whenever he wants. You can’t go visit your husband easily like that. He’s in Arlington, a four hour drive away. And he knows you love that and are glad he’s honored there but he’s sure it hurts at times. It’s actually one piece of this he really can’t imagine. He can’t imagine not being able to go see her whenever he wanted.

But Jack decides visiting her right now doesn’t quite feel right. So he just walks. And walks. And walks. It all runs through his head again. Every emotion and feeling and scrap of guilt. He’s not even really fully aware of the conversation he’s having with himself in his head, of how he’s trying to process. He just doesn’t fight anything and lets it happen.

He’s so completely in his head and on auto-pilot that Jack doesn’t even know where he is or how he got here when he stops walking as he hits the entrance to a park. It kind of freaks him out how he doesn’t remember walking here but he just rolls with it, walks into the park and along the trail until he spots a bench a little off the path near some bushes. 

More than anything at this point, Jack finds himself struggling with the guilt. He feels guilty for doing this to you. For dropping this big emotional thing on you that clearly upset you for him and just leaving. For making you wonder if he was going to come back or if you’d never see him again and be stuck with another loss and cleaning out his clothes and belongings that are at your place just like you had to with your husband’s. For scaring you like that. For forgetting the monitor and letting your son cry. 

He knows that in some sense this guilt will be easier to let go. That it really will fade almost completely with time because he can spend time with you. He can apologize and reassure you. You guys can make new happy and fun memories, smile and laugh together.

Jack knows that’s not true for the rest of his guilt. His guilt for not noticing his ring coming off. For not putting it back on. For letting that piece of her go. His guilt for moving on with you even when he knows that’s what she would want, is what he would want for her. And he thought about that each time he was deployed and made her a video just in case he didn’t come back. He always told her. Grieve and then find someone else to share your life with and be happy with. He wanted that for her. But now that he’s here having to be the one to do it, it feels like some form of betrayal in a way. How could he possibly ever get over her? Jack knows it’s not really about getting over. Because he couldn’t really, in the same way you could never truly get over your husband. It’s not a breakup. Nobody chose to end the relationship. It was ripped away. 

But he knows it’s not betrayal. He knows that being with you, falling in love with you, doesn’t mean he doesn’t love her anymore, doesn’t diminish how much he loves her. Doesn’t make her some figure in his past that he’ll slowly come to think of less and less until he forgets her. He could never forget her and a part of him will always love her. He doesn’t think he could go a single day without thinking of her even if only for a second. And Jack knows that you would never let him. That if the day came where he started losing his memory that you’d be right by his side with pictures of the two of you and your family together but also with pictures of her and her and him together, tell him all the stories he’s told you about her. 

He knows it’s not betrayal and this is what she would want but it’s so fucking hard at times. He wishes he could just call her. Or that she had left a video telling him to grieve and find someone else. Maybe hearing it directly from her would help. But he can’t and she didn’t. All he has is a dove on your windowsill and while it feels so strongly like a sign and her blessing it’s hard to hold onto that belief at times. 

Jack lets out a long breath and closes his eyes, tips his head back and feels what’s left of the heat from the sun and the slight breeze across his face. He should head back soon so he doesn’t get back after dark. Or at least text you that he’s okay and still walking if it does get dark. But he still doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know what he needs. Whether to go back to his house for the night or even the weekend. 

He thinks he’s having an auditory hallucination when he first hears it. That coo of a dove. Jack opens his eyes slowly and brings his head back down. And sure enough there on the opposite end of the bench is a mourning dove. He gives a short laugh of disbelief. So he’s having a visual hallucination too, great. Because this can’t be real. And it especially can’t be real when the dove moves and Jack recognizes it as the same one that was on the windowsill. That line of black feathers just above one of its eyes too unique to be a different bird. 

But then a kid who must be four or five yells “Look mommy! A bird!” as they point to the bench. The kid’s mom looks over and nods, says something Jack can’t hear to her daughter. 

Jack tells himself to be relieved that he’s not hallucinating. But it just feels like too much, in every sense. It’s too perfect to be true and mean anything. But it’s also way too coincidental and on point to mean nothing. Right? 

The dove gives a soft coo and then tilts its head to one side as it looks at Jack, eyes almost squinting. He swears it’s a really? look that he’s given Robby a thousand times. Like really the dove had to come find him again to give him the same message. So maybe he is hallucinating. Might as well go full send then. “I’m not convinced that you’re not some very realistic fucking animatronic dove Robby’s controlling off in some fucking bush to try and help me,” Jack huffs and rolls his eyes, doesn’t believe a word of what he’s saying but still.

He can’t believe he’s actually fucking talking to the dove now. Joking with it. He has to laugh at himself and the dove coos a few times as he does, ruffling its feathers again. Jack rubs his face with his hands and shakes his head before looking back at the dove. He bites his lip when he feels that pressure behind his eyes. He won’t cry. Not with this dove. That’s the line. That has to be the fucking line. 

Jack and the dove just look at each other for a few minutes. Maybe it’s true, likely it’s Jack forcing himself to believe it, but it feels like sitting in her presence. He presses his lips in a line as they tremble slightly. “Yeah?” It’s a loaded question. 

He can’t believe he actually just asked that out loud. To the dove. The random bird in a park on a bench. Like it really means something. Like it’s actually her. But Jack wants to believe it is. He wants that comfort. Wants that sign. And he tells himself that’s okay. That it’s human. That humans have been looking for and seeing signs in all sorts of things forever. Jack needs to believe in this. And so he gives himself this and lets himself believe.

The dove coos back at him once. Jack smiles and shakes his head. After a few more coos at Jack the dove flies off. He watches it fly off, laughing as a few tears leak out of his eyes. He brings his head back down and rests his elbows on his knees, holds his face in his hand for a second and gives himself a single muffled sob through his laughter. Because the dove isn’t here now. He’s not crying with the dove. 

He wants to tell you. Jack needs to tell you. And maybe you’ll think he’s totally off the fucking rocker and break it off and that’ll be the real sign. He has a feeling you won’t though. 

Jack wipes his eyes and sniffles and then stands up. He walked on auto-pilot for so long that he actually has to use his phone to get directions to point him in the direction of your place. He feels much better, as kind of crazy as that fact makes him feel. He’ll stay at yours tonight. The whole weekend if you’ll let him. 

Eventually you force yourself to get up. The tears have at least lessened if not stopped completely. You take your son into your room with you and set him on the floor for a second while you change quickly. You don’t know what to do with yourself. Taking a walk with your son crosses your mind but you don’t want to accidentally run into Jack and have him feel like you’re stalking him or can’t give him space. You’re just restless. 

You could go to the park a few blocks up. You doubt Jack is going to go there if he’s taking a walk, it’s not a huge park you can really walk through. But still. You shouldn’t risk it. You sigh and pick your son up, head back to the living room and get down on the floor to play with him like Jack was. You feel like a terrible mother for not giving your son your full attention since you’ve been home so you do your best to go completely into mom mode and forget about everything but your son. 

Two or so hours pass and Jack still isn’t back. You head to the kitchen and put your son in his highchair, get some dinner ready for him. You consider making something for yourself and maybe Jack but you’re not even remotely hungry. You’re vaguely nauseous if anything. But at least the tears have truly stopped and you put in some eyedrops so your eyes hopefully won’t completely give you away when you see Jack again. You don’t want him to feel like you’re taking his trauma and struggle for yourself. 

You’re helping your son eat dinner when you hear the lock turn over and your front door open. It makes your heart rate pick up quite noticeably. You have no idea if the walk will have helped at all, if he’s going to just run in to tell you he’s leaving for tonight or the weekend or forever. Because you can’t help but catastrophize. You don’t even know whether to call out a greeting. But when he doesn’t offer one as he locks the door behind him you figure you shouldn’t either. 

“Hey,” Jack greets you as he walks into the kitchen, kissing the top of your head as he walks by before doing the same to your son who squeals in excitement at seeing Jack. He sounds much better. Happier.

You freeze for a second. It’s not what you expected so it catches you a little off guard. “Hey,” you reply, tracking Jack as he sits down at the table across from you, baby at the end in the middle. He looks lighter. He’s been crying at least a little but he looks lighter and happier and like he found some answers and worked things out and is almost at peace. It gives you whiplash for a few seconds before Jack’s eyes leave your son and turn back to you, that intense gaze of his helping to ground you. He flashes you one of those smiles of his that gives you butterflies. “The walk helped I take it?”

“It did,” he nods at you, still smiling. “Well, actually, it wasn’t really the walk, it was a bird.”

You raise your eyebrows and smile back at him, confusion ghosting your features. “A bird?”

“A bird,” he confirms. “The whole thing is going to sound insane, and like I said yesterday, if you want to kick me out forever at the end I’ll get it. And I’m sorry.” Jack softens a little. “I know you’re going to say don’t be, but I am.”

“And like I said yesterday I very much doubt that’s how I’ll react.” You give him a small smile and turn to help your son finish his dinner. “And you’re right, I’m going to say don’t be sorry because you have nothing to be sorry for. You didn’t do anything to be sorry for.” You glance over at him with a knowing smile. 

“Still am,” he teases and you roll your eyes affectionately. “What do you want to order for dinner?”

You laugh a little. “How do you know I didn’t make myself something and eat already?” 

Jack doesn’t miss a beat. “You never eat when you’re stressed or worried or anxious.” He shrugs. “It worries me sometimes.”

“I-” you start, but have to stop. He’s right. You never eat when you’re stressed. The fact that he cares about you enough to have noticed and have it worry him isn’t missed by your brain and it makes you feel warm all over.

“You know I’m right.” Jack smirks at you. 

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” you grumble at him, but have to smile at the sound of his soft laugh. You help your son finish the last bite of his dinner and shrug at Jack. “I don’t know. Whatever you want. Nothing sounds particularly good or bad.” You stand up and grab a pack of baby wipes, start using one to clean your son’s face. 

“I’ve got it, you grab him,” Jack murmurs once your son is clean. 

“No, you take him. You already washed all of this once today. I’ve got it this time.” You turn your attention to your son. “And you want to go see Jack, don’t you Baby?” Your son laughs, holds his arms up and makes grabby hands at both of you really, looking between you and Jack, but eventually settling on Jack. “You really going to tell that face no?” You click your tongue at Jack. 

“I could never,” Jack hums as he picks your son up. “And he knows it.” He bounces your son in his arms a little, smiling at him and making faces. He glances over at you as he does. “Nauseous?” 

You pause before setting the tray in the sink and starting to wash it. You don’t know why you’re surprised. The man clearly knows you and he’s a doctor. There’s probably some outward physical symptoms you were displaying. “A little,” you simper at him, “but it’s passing.” 

“Good.” Jack sits back down with your son and orders something quickly, the lightest of your favorite dishes. “Food’ll be here in twenty.” 

“You didn’t have to do that Jack.” You shoot him a look from the sink. 

“Wanted to.” You shake your head at him with a little smile and bite of your lip as Jack adjusts your son to bounce on him. “Honestly, I had this whole little cooking lesson date at home idea where he and I were going to go pick up ingredients and then when you got home we’d cook and I’d show you things and wear him or he’d chill in his highchair and then… my ring fell off and kind of derailed everything.” The end of the sentence is much quieter than the beginning. 

You look at Jack as you finish drying the tray and set it on the counter. He’s still focused on your son. As much as he’s feeling better he clearly still has some stuff lingering under the surface. “That’s a very sweet idea. I’m sure we can do it someday soon.”

“Yeah.” He nods and glances at you, gives you an uncharacteristically shy smile. “Anyway, I figure once the food is here and we’ve eaten and put him down for the night we could talk? And I could tell you about the bird. A dove, specifically.” 

“I’d like that.” You nod at him and drape the dish towel back over the oven handle and go back and sit across from your boys at the table. “A mourning dove?”

“Mhmm.” Jack confirms, making a face at your son and then tickling his tummy. They’re common enough that he’s not surprised you guessed it.

“Your wife’s favorite,” you say softly, giving Jack an understanding smile when he looks up at you. 

Jack blinks at you for a solid thirty seconds. It strikes him that you said it. As in you didn’t ask it. You said it because you know it’s true. You know they’re her favorite. He must have talked about it once and you remembered. You remembered. “Yeah.” Jack nods, a little dazed. 

Your smile widens a little. “You’re not the only one who notices and remembers things Sweetheart,” you tease him lightly. 

Jack huffs a laugh and rolls his eyes playfully, but his smile makes clear how he really feels. How touched he is. The two of you chat for a bit until the food arrives. Once it does you eat at the table together, your son happy to hang out in his highchair next to you both. You get him down for the night while Jack clears the table and wipes it down. And then you meet him on the couch. 

You pause for a second, unsure of where you should sit. As of late you and Jack have been sitting side by side on the couch and so normally you would just take the seat next to him and not think about it. But you’re not sure where he’s at tonight, if he wants you that close. 

He pats the seat next to him. “Here, please. If you want. It’s okay if you don’t.” 

“No, I do,” you nod as you walk over and sit next to him, put the monitor on the coffee table, “I just wasn’t sure where you were with it tonight.” 

“I appreciate you thinking about it, but I’d like you close. I like having you close.” 

“I, I like having you close too,” you admit with a shy smile and slightly lowered head. You both shift on the couch so that you’re slightly angled and can see each other.

 “I’m going to preface this all by saying I know how crazy and ridiculous some of this is going to sound. But I just… want to believe it. Need to. So I’m trying to let myself. And maybe that’s not the healthiest way to deal with everything, but I can try and figure that out with my therapist later.” You nod and give him an encouraging smile. 

And so Jack begins. He starts with what happened with his ring, finding it. He spells out all of the emotions and guilt and feelings he’s had throughout the day. There are tears from him, moments where you pull him close and let him cry into your neck and chest while you rub his back and kiss his curls. You reassure him at the right times, express your understanding of his feelings and especially of a lot of the guilt. 

Then he finally moves to the dove. He tells you about both instances, at the windowsill and the park and you listen, nod at times and smile. You don’t look at him like he’s crazy or like you’re just putting up with this until he stops talking and you can free yourself. You squeeze his hand and laugh with him when he does. 

Jack shrugs at the end. Even though your reaction has been nothing but positive as you listened he’s still worried about what you’ll have to say. Still feels exceptionally vulnerable. “So, yeah. That’s the story of the bird I guess,” he laughs weakly, clearly somewhat embarrassed. He squeezes your hand that he’s holding to tell you he’s ready to hear what you have to say.

“Oh Jack,” you sigh, squeezing his hand back. His heart races a little faster. He’s not sure what to make of your sigh. “I don’t think there’s any part of that story, of anything you just told me, that’s crazy or ridiculous or insane.” 

Jack lets out a long breath. “Thank you,” he whispers. 

“Nothing to thank me for Sweetheart, I’m being honest with you. That’s what I think.”

“No I know, but…” Jack trails off, not really sure where he wanted to take that sentence. 

“I know.” You nod at him for a second. Now that you have that out there and Jack has relaxed you take a minute to gather your thoughts. Jack can tell it’s what you’re doing by the look in your eye as you keep your eyes fixed on a spot on the wall. Once you have a rough idea of what you want to say you look back at him. “I think it’s like you said Jack. Humans search for meaning and signs in everything. It’s normal. Especially in this context. And I think that if that wasn’t a sign from her then nobody in history has ever truly received a sign from anybody or anything because what happened with that dove was, I don’t even know how to describe it. Intense? Overly coincidental? I guess I don’t know how anyone could have that happen and think it meant nothing and was just two random things that happened at a very specific time with no significance.”

“Okay, good. I’m glad it wasn’t just me.” Jack lets out a bit of a groaned laugh and runs a hand through his hair. 

“Even if it was Jack, who the fuck cares? The only thing that matters is what it meant to you. How it made you feel. What you believe it is. Everyone else’s and the world’s opinions on it are irrelevant. Even mine. To be clear I’m with you on this, I promise. I’m just saying. Nobody but you will ever truly understand what all of that felt like so who is anyone to judge or tell you that your interpretation is wrong?” You shrug at him like it’s so simple. 

And in a way Jack guesses that it is. Because you’re right. Nobody else could ever truly understand. Not even you. “Yeah. I guess I was busy judging myself on behalf of the world about it and never really thought about it like that.” He tilts his head at you. “I’m really glad you don’t think I’m weird for it and that you understand. And uh,” he looks down and grows quieter, almost nervous, “we’re okay, right?” You know he’s asking if you still consider the two of you to be together, a couple.

You smile at him, lean in and press a lingering kiss to his forehead. “We’re more than okay, Jack,” you whisper against his skin, press another quick kiss there and pull back. 

“Good,” he breathes. You look at each other in a comfortable silence for a minute. “Have you,” Jack pauses and debates whether to finish his question. “Have you ever had something like that happen to you? You don’t have to answer either. I just wondered.” 

You raise your eyebrows. “Oh, well, I, um, yes. But not quite in the same way? I don’t know. He…” You look down at your lap and laugh softly to yourself before looking back up at Jack. “My husband, he used to give me daisies. All the time, for everything. Every big thing, anniversaries, birthdays, sometimes just because. Before we started dating I must have mentioned it once and so he actually showed up to our first date with a little bouquet of them, it was very sweet. I actually pressed one of them and have it still. Anyway, after I gave birth, when I was in the hospital I had ended up telling the nurses about him and what happened, and my doctor already knew. They felt bad, obviously, and so because I didn’t really have anyone to celebrate with they all went in on getting me some nice flowers.” You let out a bit of a shuddery breath, eyes a little glassy as you think back on the memory.

“It was a bouquet of daisies,” Jack murmurs. 

You smile at him and nod. “It was a bouquet of daisies,” you confirm. “And I asked the nurse who brought them in if there was a reason for daisies and she said when she went to buy them they just kind of called to her.” You shrug. “So, it’s not quite the same, but in the moment and even now I like to believe that he was somehow behind it and was there with us.”

As much as the memory warms Jack’s heart, parts of it break it too. He still hates the thought of you not having anyone, not having any support during labor and birth and after. Hates how your husband’s death was still pretty fresh for you. He can’t even begin to imagine. “I think he was,” Jack nods, reaching out and taking your hand, hoping it gives you some comfort and doesn’t feel weird. “Both behind it and there with you.”

“Thank you.” You nod at him. “Now whenever I see them I think of him, tell myself he’s saying hi.”

Jack nods and gives you a gentle smile. “He is.” 

After a few seconds you and Jack both shift at the same time, lean in and hug each other. “Thank you for trusting me with all of that. The story and your feelings. I’m really glad she helped you find some peace. I would be regardless of what it was about.”

“Thank you for listening and trusting me with the daisies.” He turns his head and presses a kiss to your temple. 

Neither of you have to say anything else. You both get it, understand exactly what it meant to the other and for the two of you as a couple. You settle against Jack a bit once you break the hug.  

The mood is still a little somber. You guess that’s how you would describe it. You tilt your head and pull it back a little, give Jack a small smirk and try to help pick the mood up. You hope it doesn’t backfire. “You want me to ask Robby the first time I meet him if he has a very realistic animatronic mourning dove that he follows you around with?” 

“Please!” Jack snorts a laugh, “I would love to see his coughed out ‘excuse me?’ and his panicked and concerned eyes looking at me for a second before he gives you the actual fucking nicest, ‘no, I can’t say that I do,’ while internally trying to figure out how he’s going to casually pull me aside nicely ask me ‘what the fuck?’”

You giggle with him as Jack laughs at the thought. “You know I could never, right? I’m way too shy and socially awkward around people I don’t know to do that.”

Jack laughs as he nods. He lets his laughter trail off and grows a touch more serious, the smile he’s giving you dripping with the adoration and affection and gratefulness he has for you. “I do know that, yes, it’s something I lo-” Jack catches himself, “really like about you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jack is right. Kind of. He doesn’t have to tell Dana and Robby. But they don’t even have to ask to know. Just looking at him is enough. 

“Did Dr. Abbot get divorced?” Trinity poses the question to the group at the hub. 

Nobody answers for a moment. Half the people there don’t know and the other half don’t really want to spread Jack’s business. 

Robby can feel the eyes of the half of the group that doesn’t know on him. He slowly raises his head and shoots them all a don’t gossip look. “No.” He looks at her a little longer. “What prompted that question?” 

Trinity shrugs. “He just used to wear a wedding ring and isn’t now.” 

The iPad in Robby’s hands drops the few inches to the counter as he spins to look at Jack, who apparently just arrived and is speaking with Dana. 

“You have a good weekend?” Dana asks as she looks at Jack over her glasses with a knowing smile. 

“I did, thank you Dana,” he says a little saccharinely. “Did you? Or did you have to work?”

“No I had it off. It was fine. Didn’t do much.” She tries to keep it casual but Jack can see right through it and it almost makes him laugh as he sets his phone on the counter and grabs a few things out of his backpack and puts them in his pockets. “What about you? Do anything fun?” 

You text him and when it wakes his phone Dana’s fast enough to glance down and see his new wallpaper. A photo of the three of you. She keeps her head down as she smiles to herself. 

“I did yeah.” Jack doesn’t offer anything more much to her apparent chagrin. She clocks his ringless left hand when he picks up his phone, her eyes widening and mouth dropping open for a second before she closes it and looks back up at him. Jack looks at her. He knows she knows. “I’m going to put my stuff away now.” 

“Yeah, okay.” She nods at him, watching him walk towards the lockers. Once he’s out of sight she spins. “Robby!” She flicks her head to beckon him and walks away from the hub in the middle of the floor. 

“He’s not wearing his ring.” Robby whispers. 

“I know. And his phone’s wallpaper is a picture of the three of them.” Dana nudges his arm as she says it. 

“Really?”

“Mhmm. Something must have happened.” Dana pauses and glances over Robby’s shoulder to see if Jack is walking back to the floor yet. “He said he had a good weekend and did something fun but he didn’t give any other details.” 

“He’s gonna have to figure out something to say to everyone because Santos already asked if he got divorced because he’s not wearing his ring.” Robby gives Dana a look. They both know Jack is private by nature, but that at the same time he would absolutely hate people thinking he got a divorce. 

“He is.” She nods. “You think we can get him to talk?” She moves her chin subtly to point where Jack is walking back on the floor. 

Robby shakes his head slightly. “I don’t know.” The two turn their attention to Jack, watching as he starts walking to the hub.

He can feel their eyes on him. And they’re not exactly subtle or trying to hide it. He looks at them for a second and stops walking.

Jack sighs before turning and walking into the breakroom. As much as he acts annoyed about it he really does kind of like it. He likes having two people he trusts to talk to you about and show you off to. 

He crosses his arms over his chest as Dana and Robby walk in. “Can I help the two of you?” They both just raise their eyebrows at him. “Aren’t you both off? Go home.” 

“Can’t.” Robby shakes his head and clicks his tongue at Jack. “Haven’t run the board with you yet.” 

Jack scoffs. “Then let’s go fucking run it.” He takes a couple of steps forward. 

“So it led to more?” Dana finally asks, getting Jack to stop walking and cross his arms back over his chest. 

Jack looks at her stoically. “Does it matter to the two of you?” 

“Ha!” Robby laughs. “Yeah it matters Jack! You’re not wearing your ring! It’s been over five years and you haven’t taken it off and now you have her in your life and it comes off? It absolutely matters. She matters! She’s important!”

There’s a little pang for Jack when Robby mentions his ring and his lips turn down for just a split second, but both Robby and Dana catch it. “I didn’t ask if she mattered or if it mattered generally. I asked if it mattered specifically to the two of you.” 

“It does Jack!” Dana smiles at him. “Like I said before, we want to see you happy and support you.”

Jack looks at the two of them for a second before taking a deep breath and settling his hands on his hips. “Yes, if you must know, there’s more than just friendship now.” He can’t fight off the smile that pulls onto his face as he says it. Nor does he really want to.

“Oh yeah?” Dana’s smile grows and she raises her eyebrows at him. 

“Are you like together?” Robby asks. “Like is she your girlfriend? Or is it like the dating stage before you make it official?” 

“Oh my god,” Jack mutters, shaking his head and looking away from them. “Yes, we’re together and she’s my girlfriend, okay?”

“Since when?” Dana beams at him. Jack knows how happy she is for him, knows she and Robby have seen him at his lowest and truly do just want him to be happy and are excited for him and care and are accordingly being affectionately nosey. 

“Really?” Jack sighs. 

“Has to be pretty recent, we’d have noticed otherwise,” Robby says to Dana. 

“Really, I guess,” Jack mutters to himself. “Thursday night, okay? Thursday night.”

“So I’m guessing you haven’t been out on a real date yet,” Dana hums at him. “It’s important to go on dates without the baby. Real dates.” 

“Yes, I know, thank you.” Jack gives her an exaggeratedly annoyed smile. 

“And do romantic things,” Robby adds.

“I do romantic things! I know to do them! I-” Jack huffs and shakes his head. “What the fuck even is this? I don’t need dating or relationship advice! And we’ve been together all of five days, can we all slow the fuck down?”

“Listen,” Dana starts. “I’m just saying. I’ve been in the baby phase before and I know I was married, but it can be easy to fall into a routine and always have him with you. So if you guys ever need a sitter, I’m more than happy to do that for you, okay?”

“I would be happy to as well,” Robby offers. 

Jack nods at them both as he considers. “Yeah, I kind of like that. The idea of his sitter being a medical professional. And I’ve thought about it before. How the two of you would be my preferred sitters. But,” he shrugs at them, trying a little too hard to look uneffected, “he’s not my kid, so it’s not my decision.” 

“For some reason I think she’d take your opinion into consideration pretty seriously.” Dana smirks at him. 

“This would, you know, require us meeting her,” Robby teases him. 

Jack stares at him. “Thank you for that very helpful insight Michael.” 

“I’m just saying.” Robby smirks a little and shrugs at Jack. 

“Yes,” Jack sings the word a little, “she would like to meet you both. We’ll get it set up. Figure out something to do.”

“Good.” Dana nods approvingly. “We’ll be on our best behavior to convince her to let us babysit for you guys. Won’t we Robinavitch?” 

“Why’d you say it like that?” Robby looks at her with mock offense. “Of course I will be.” 

“She’s going to like you.” Jack rolls his eyes at the two of them. “She’s shy though, has some social anxiety. So if she’s quiet and seems a bit reserved it’s just because she’s shy and it has nothing to do with you guys. She opens up more as she gets comfortable but she’s just quiet by nature. So it’s different.” He nods at both of them. They both know what he means. That you’re not extroverted like his wife. That you’re kind of the polar opposite in a way. Jack clears his throat. “Now is there any other part of my relationship you’d like to plan or be involved in? You wanna actually plan the dates too?” Jack asks pointedly, though there’s enough of a ghost of a smile on his face for the two to know he’s not actually mad.

There’s silence for a few seconds but then Robby apparently just can’t help himself. “You have condoms? You should keep one in your wa-”

“Robby!” Dana lightly smacks his arm with the papers she’s holding as Jack glares at Robby with a set face. “Really? Even for you!” Dana shakes her head at him, but it’s quite obvious to Jack she’s biting down a smile. And when she turns back to look at Jack she gives him the quickest flash of a he’s right though look. 

“What? I just like fucking with him sometimes!” Robby half laughs as he twists and moves his body away from Dana and her papers. He looks back at Jack. 

Once he and Robby have locked eyes Jack speaks. “I’m going to give Myrna your home address,” he deadpans so stone faced and stoically he can see Robby have the quickest flash of worry that he might actually do it.

“Oh come on I was joking!” Robby holds his hands out to his side. After a beat he gives the smallest shrug and lowers his voice. “Kind of.” 

“See,” Jack looks at Dana and waves towards Robby, “and I was going to offer to show you guys pictures and then Michael had to open his fucking mouth.”

“Woah woah woah!” Dana shakes her head and moves closer to Jack, holding her hands up in acquiescence. “Don’t punish me for his bullshit! I didn’t say anything. I just volunteered to babysit!”

Robby scoffs loudly. “Thank you Dana, for the solidarity. I’m really feeling it right now.”

“I actually do genuinely appreciate you offering, Dana. We may take you up on that soon. But she’s not going to let you do it for free,” Jack tells her in a much softer voice. He pulls his phone out and starts pulling up some photos to show her. 

“I can babysit too!” Robby offers. “I’m also a medical professional you know!” 

Jack flicks his eyes up to look at Robby, stone faced again. “That’s debatable.” 

“I made one joke! After being so supportive-”

“Shut up and get over here to look,” Jack cuts him off with a slight cock of his head to tell Robby he’s just fucking with him back and not actually upset. “And yes, we might ask you to babysit one day too.”

Jack brings up a few random photos of your son that he’s taken over the months while watching him, a few of him and your son. “God, he is just too fuckin cute,” Dana laughs. 

“The cutest.” Jack smiles fondly as he looks at your son. 

He brings up a few more of your son, a couple of you and your son. Then he hits Thursday. 

“This was on Thursday. It was his first birthday. We took him to the zoo.” Jack laughs softly as he looks at the photos. “He loves animals.” He offers his phone to Dana. “You can go through.” 

Dana does, her and Robby laughing sweetly at some of them and awing at others. She stops on a photo of a three of you that you’d had someone take. “Oh Jack,” Dana coos, “you guys look so happy. All three of you.” 

“Yeah.” Robby nods, smiles to himself. “And that little boy loves you.”

Jack flushes at that. He’s not really sure why but it makes him a little emotional. He watches as Dana flicks through some more photos. “He’s a year old, he’s hit the stage of liking anyone who gives him attention.” He has no idea why he’s downplaying it like he doesn’t absolutely fucking love the fact that your son loves him.

Jack doesn’t have to see Robby to know he’s rolling his eyes. It’s clear in his voice. “That is so not true Jack. And he loved you that first time we met him.” 

“He’s right,” Dana agrees, “babies can be pretty good judges of character. They’ll stay away from and cry around people they don’t like. And he did love you when we met. So just accept the boy loves you.” 

Jack just hums in response. It makes him smile though. He loves your son too. “And she’s beautiful, Jack. You can tell you make her happy.” Dana looks away from the phone and at Jack. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, smiling as he looks down at you, “she makes me happy too.”

Dana and Robby share a look. “You know she’d be really happy for you Jack,” Robby says softly, talking about Jack’s wife. “She would want this for you.” 

“He’s right again,” Dana whispers, leaning into Jack and wrapping an arm around him and giving him his phone back. 

Jack leans into her in a silent thank you. “Two times in one day,” he says quietly, “someone better mark it on the calendar.” Robby huffs at him but Jack looks up and smirks at him for a second before giving Robby a genuine, slightly emotional smile and tipping his head at him. “Thank you, Robby.” Robby returns Jack’s smile with an identical one of his own. “And thank you,” he tells Dana as he bumps into her and returns her half hug. “Can we go run the board now?” 

“I think we can,” Robby nods, clapping Jack on the shoulder as they walk towards the door. “But hey,” Robby pauses by the door, opening it so Dana can walk out but looking at Jack who raises his eyebrows at him. “You weren’t serious about giving Myrna my address?”

Jack’s stoic look returns, not a hint of real emotion on his face. “Not today,” he deadpans and walks out. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I feel ridiculous for being this emotional about something so simple. It’s just a haircut.” You shake your head but lean into Jack a bit more as you both stand and watch your son get his hair cut. 

He’s needed it. He has for a bit you’ve just struggled to bring yourself to do it and life got busy. But earlier this week you’d worked yourself up to it and asked Jack if the place he got his hair cut also did kids’ hair. He’d been a little surprised by the question, for some reason it felt kind of meaningful in some way that you wanted your son to go to his barber shop. He told himself that realistically it was probably just because you didn’t know where else to go, but you could have gone wherever you get your hair done, but maybe they just don’t take kids. 

In any event your son is here at Jack’s barber shop getting a haircut. And you had asked Jack to come with you again once you made the appointment. He’d told you that you didn’t need to ask again, of course he would. You’ve been together a little over a week now and things have been good. Steady and sweet. Lots of hugs and forehead kisses and side cuddles on the couch when you’ve both been home at the same time. 

“First haircut, though. It’s kind of a big deal,” Jack murmurs to you, hand rubbing your back. 

“I don’t even know why I’m like this.”

“You don’t need to know why. You’re allowed to just feel. But I’m guessing it’s because it’s a sign of him growing up.” Jack presses a kiss to the top of your head. He’s not super sure how much you’ve thought about the end result but he wants you to be prepared. “Sweetheart, you know this haircut is most likely going to make him look much older?”

You go still and then Jack hears you sniffle. “No!” Your voice gets adorably high-pitched like you’re fighting back tears and you turn further into Jack and rest your forehead in the crook of his shoulder while you let a couple of tears fall. 

“I’ve got you,” Jack says with a sad little laugh, holding you close and rubbing your back. “I just wanted you to be prepared.” 

“I didn’t even think about that, I was just so focused on the haircut generally,” you mumble into him.

“I kind of thought so,” he murmurs, wiping away the one or two stray tears when you pull your face from his shoulder.

“God,” you huff at yourself, “when I said come with me to be my shoulder to cry on I didn’t think I was going to mean it literally.” 

Jack chuckles. “That’s alright, it’s part of what I’m here for. As in right now and generally, you know?” 

You look up at him and smile. You know he means as your boyfriend. “I do, yeah.” 

Later that night you and Jack are in the kitchen grabbing some water to take to bed with you and putting away a couple of things that have dried on the dish rack. You’d just finished watching your current show on the couch together like you often do. Jack had been right. The haircut makes your son look older. You’d had a little moment about it after you guys left the shop but you were able to move past it pretty quickly. 

Something about the day and the night has felt different for you. Jack has been so understanding and sweet and supportive and perfect, not just over the last week and a bit you’ve been together officially but even the three months before that, just in a different capacity. And you want more with him. You want to express your thanks and affection through more than hugs and side cuddles on the couch and forehead and cheek kisses. You want more of Jack. And you feel ready.

He’s putting the last of the dishes away.

“Hey Jack?”

“Yeah, Sweetheart?” His eyebrows raise a little as he shuts the cabinet door and turns to look at you. 

“Thank you. For today. Coming with me and holding me while I cried.” You shrug with a soft laugh. “I’m sorry you have to do so much of that right now.”

“You’re welcome. I was very happy to come, thank you for inviting me.” He walks closer to you but lets you initiate any touching. You wrap your arms around his waist loosely as you look up at him, his arms doing the same. “You have nothing to apologize for though. And I don’t feel like I’m having to hold you while you cry particularly often. Even if I was, I wouldn’t care. I mean I would care in the sense that I fucking hate seeing you upset, but not at the fact that you needed and wanted me to hold you. And I’m pretty sure you’ve held me while I cried recently too.” He tilts his head and gives you a little smirk. 

“I would anytime you needed.” You take a step closer to him and wrap your arms around him a little tighter, one of Jack’s arms around your waist while his other hand rubs up and down your back. 

Jack laughs softly, eyes crinkling so perfectly you could scream. “Same for you.” 

He looks beautiful in the flickering light of the lit candle on the kitchen table. Unfairly handsome with the way his skin glows and with his molten eyes and kissable and suckable lips and salt and pepper stubble. Jack’s thinking the same thing about you in this light. How the flickering light makes your eyes look like they’re shimmering, how the shadows hit perfectly to highlight your features and how the soft glow of the candle makes you look radiant. 

“What are you thinking about so hard?” you ask him a little breathlessly, closing the last of the distance between your bodies so that you’re flush against each other chest to chest, both your and Jack’s arms tightening around each other.

“That you’re beautiful,” he murmurs. “Incredibly so.” 

The smile that pulls on your face is bashful. “Funny, I was just thinking how incredibly handsome you are.” You lean your head up and in towards his, eyes dropping down to his lips for a second before returning to his eyes. “And how I’d like you to kiss me.” 

This close you can just about see Jack’s pupils dilate a little further. God does he fucking want to kiss you. But he finds himself unable to just do it without checking. “We don’t have to do this. You do not owe me. Not for going with you or because you cried and I held you or for anything at all. Ever.”

You nod at him. 

Jack brings his head down towards yours, tilting it slightly, eyes focused on your lips for a moment before going back to your eyes. “Say it please.” 

“I know. I know I don’t owe you,” you whisper, “I promise. I want this. I’ve been wanting this. And I’m ready.” 

“Okay,” he whispers, leaning his head down and towards yours further. Your lips are just about touching now.

“Jack,” you breathe against his lips. 

He nods once. “Yeah? You sure?” 

You nod at him. “Please.”

Jack doesn’t need asked twice. And so in your candle lit kitchen you share your first kiss. He presses his lips to yours in an almost painfully sweet and chaste kiss, holding his lips against yours just the right amount of time before he pulls away to look you in the eye, check in, see if you liked it, if you want more, if that’s enough for the night. 

The look in your eyes tells him all he needs to know just as the look in his tells you. But Jack doesn’t have time to even move in to kiss you again because you’re already kissing him, one hand resting on his chest while the other comes to cup his jaw and keep him close. 

You’re stealing kiss after kiss from each other, most of them starting to linger. Starting to get just a touch hotter. No open mouths or tongue or hard sucking, just more urgent.

Even kissing you Jack is respectful, though you expected absolutely nothing less with how he is, how he treats you. He lets you set the pace, follows your lead. There are soft noises of appreciation from each of you, the sounds slipping out easily even with the relatively chaste kissing you’re doing. 

You can feel the uncertainty of Jack’s hands as they rest against your hips, thumbs rubbing soft circles over your shirt. You know it’s not that he’s not confident or is particularly self-conscious, but that he’s not sure what you’re okay with, where you’re okay with his hands being. It makes you smile against his lips. 

“What?” he asks against your lips as he smiles just because you are. 

“Nothing.” You take another kiss. “You’re just very cute.”

“Oh?” Jack kisses you again.

You nod a little. “Yeah.” It’s mumbled against his lips. Your hands leave his chest and jaw to find his and bring them up to hold your face, silently communicating to him that it’s okay for him to hold your face like that, touch you like that. 

Jack doesn’t get to appreciate his hands holding your face very long because you’re grabbing them again, wrapping them around you and using your hand to make his hand squeeze and grab at your hip and waist, bring one up to hold the back of your neck, kissing each other all the while. “Thank you,” he murmurs against your lips. And he means it. He’s very thankful for you showing him what you’re okay with. 

“Thank you,” you mumble back, continuing to kiss him.

The last kiss breaks naturally and you pull apart. You’re both panting softly, less because you’re out of breath and more because you’re just worked up for each other. 

“That was…” You feel a little lightheaded. 

“Yeah.” Like you, Jack is a little dizzy from kissing you. “That felt so good.” He’s struggling to come up with words.

“Felt so… right,” you laugh, the sound breathless and airy. 

“Good.” Jack nods and smiles at you.  

“Did it for you?” you ask, suddenly a touch self-conscious. “Feel right?”

“Oh yeah, Sweetheart,” he drawls the first two words with a quiet and shaky laugh that says everything you need to know about just how good and right kissing you felt, “that felt right.” 

It’s then you get a good enough flicker of light to really notice the flush of his cheeks and neck. “Good.” You lean up and kiss him again.

The two of you kiss for another minute or so before you naturally break apart again. But this time Jack rests his forehead against yours. 

“We should probably go get some sleep,” Jack whispers.

“I’m not opposed to doing this all night.” You smile. 

Jack’s breathy laugh fans across your lips. “Neither am I. Believe me, neither am I.”

“I know you’re right though.” You can’t help the way your bottom lip pushes out in the slightest pout. 

“I really wish I wasn’t,” Jack groans before pulling his forehead from yours. 

You giggle at him. “But you are.” 

You share smiles before actually grabbing the water you in part initially came into the kitchen for. You grab the monitor and Jack blows the candle out as he follows you into the hallway, illuminated only by the nightlight you have so neither you, nor Jack now, has to blind yourself if you need to get to your son in the middle of the night. 

Like always as of late, Jack walks you to your bedroom door. “Thank you for a great day, Jack. And night.” You lean up and give him a quick kiss. “Goodnight, Sweetheart.”

He smiles at you. “No, thank you. For the great day and fantastic night.” Jack winks at you with a small slightly smirked smile that makes you bite your lip and laugh to yourself, bashful again. He leans back down asking for one last kiss that you’re happy to give him, along with a hug. “Goodnight, Sweetheart.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jack’s finishing up his shift Wednesday morning around 8:30. A trauma had come in right at shift change, so he’s only just had the chance to run the board with Robby. He’s signing off on a few last things and then is out, looking forward to some sleep. 

He nods a quick goodbye to Dana and starts to leave the hub when he hears a baby crying.

But it’s not just a baby crying. Jack would recognize that cry anywhere. Ice starts to spread through his veins.

Your son is here and crying and he is decidedly not happy. It’s not his usual cry. And for Jack if your son is randomly showing up here in his ED and not happy and crying the way he is, it means something is wrong. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I hope it was okay and worth the wait and you enjoyed and I would love to hear your thoughts and comments! They give me much joy and inspiration! Liking, replies and reblogging are so so appreciated! My inbox is always open for thoughts, comments, and general screaming! As are my DMs! 🙂

Do we want more of these two? I have like seven thousand ideas for the two of them if more than just myself would like to see more of them lol. The next couple of parts would probably less time jumping like this one and then I think it would probably pick back up again. Let me know if you'd like more!

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🌙 starring. Johnny Suh & Lee Haechan & Jung Jaehyun x afab!Reader 

🔮 preview. Everything feels so good- you don’t even know where to focus. Being touched by two of your best friends while the third watches is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. There’s something building inside of you, call it lust or love- regardless, it’s undeniable, and to make matters worse, it’s all-consuming too. 

tw/cw. Unprotected sex, cam girl reader, mentions of alcohol/drugs/porn, masturbation, use of sex toys, multiple reader orgasms, oral (both m/f recieving), blow job, pussy eating, overstim, multiple sex positions, dirty talk, praise, size kink, choking, spanking, etc… I pet names: (hers) Squeak.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 9.7k 

🍭 aus. Uni au, non idol au, best friends to lovers, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. This was originally a Pentagon fic from 2022, but that was three and half years ago so I revamped it for this month’s NCT fic :) I put a lot of effort into this fic when it came out, I always liked the story and the way the dynamic flowed, and the NCT fandom is so much larger than the Pentagon one, so I figured why not

“What are you thinking about?” Johnny asks as he takes a seat next to you. You make room for your large friend by lifting your legs off the couch, allowing him to slip under them.

His warm hands find your calves and he brings them to settle in his lap while you both get comfortable on the couch that Haechan has been hauling around since his last year of high school, when he’d won it during a drunken game of beer pong with Lee Taeyong, who was very flustered when he lost and had to actually cough up the couch.

You grin at the memory, pushing your body against the fuzzy blanket that covers the dark leather couch much of the time- Taeyong hadn’t bought the expensive sofa with the intention of it becoming a part-time bed for teenage boys, too lazy to get up after playing video games at all hours.

Haechan has made the stiff, leather couch comfortable with layers of blankets and pillows, and over the years, countless people have worn it down. 

“This couch,” you breathe, leaning your head to the side against the cushion. 

“How high are you?” Johnny laughs, his hand moving to find your foot, where he runs a finger along your heel. The brief contact causes you to jolt yourself away from the mischievous man, who had rolled into your life around the same time Haechan and Jaehyun had, in tenth grade.

The four of you had all been sent to some preppy teenager summer camp. Jaehyun, Haechan, and Johnny had all bonded immediately, and the three were easygoing enough to welcome you wholeheartedly into the festivities of newfound friendship.

What had started off as a ‘year abroad’ for the man from Chicago had turned into him moving to Korea full time, and the four of you have been inseparable ever since, even going to the same university now. 

“For real,” Johnny says gruffly, grabbing your foot to pull it back into his lap before running a ring-clad hand through his tousled locks. “What are you thinking about?”

“Something stupid,” you sigh, cocking your head and studying him. “You?”

Your friend shrugs, flashing you a grin that you’ve come to love so much. “Something stupid.”

“You two really need to work on your social skills,” Haechan sighs, having caught the tail end of your brief interaction.

He collapses on the couch, and you quickly pull your legs to your chest in an effort not to get crushed during Haechan’s process of forcing himself between you and Johnny.

The youngest of your three male friends has a red cup in each hand, and he holds them out expectantly.

“Who needs social skills when we have you and Jaehyun?” you smile, accepting one of the drinks and taking a sip- only to scrunch your face up in disgust. “What is in this?”

Haechan shrugs, leaning back against the couch with a lazy grin. “I confiscated it from Doyoung” 

“No wonder it tastes so bad-” You hold the cup out to Haechan, and he reluctantly accepts it. “Doyoung makes the most stupid yet strong drinks of all of us. Someone really needs to teach him how to actually make a cocktail.”

“He has to find the energy to deal with us crazies somehow,” Johnny chuckles, sniffing his own cup and swirling the contents inside before taking a test sip. 

“Speaking of crazies,” you stretch your arms over your head, looking out at the room, “where’s Jaehyun?”

“Haven’t seen him in a while,” Haechan says, arms finding the back of the couch while he looks around, the cup held by long fingers now resting just by your shoulder.

“Didn’t he go off with that pretty girl in the glitter shirt?” Johnny asks.

“Maybe.” Haechan cocks his head, eyes narrowing. “Was she his ‘go to’ tonight?”

“Must be,” Johnny responds quickly. “He didn’t invite the other one.”

You sigh, finding the whole thing to be a little crazy.

Being best friends with three dudes has a lot of positives- but listening to them detail their fuck schedules and fuck buddies is not one of them. 

“Stop being so grumpy.” Haechan shoves you, and you realize you’ve been wearing your feelings on your sleeve for everyone to see. 

“I’m not being grumpy,” you insist, but you can’t wipe the expression of distaste from your face.

“You are. You hate Jaehyun and his fuck buddies.”

“I just- I just don’t get why the three of you are so into hookup culture,” you sigh. “I mean- what's the point?”

“The point is getting your dick wet, Squeak,” Johnny chuckles, and the nickname makes your skin heat.

They’ve tried a number of pet names for you over the years, but Pip Squeak has been the only one that’s truly stuck- and it’s no wonder. It’s completely fitting. You stick out like a tiny little nugget next to your three male friends. 

“She doesn’t need to get her dick wet,” Haechan rolls his eyes, a mischievous grin breaking onto his face a moment later. “She’s already as wet as can be.”

“Haechan!” You and Johnny both react at the same time, your foot kicking at Haechan’s lap while Johnny shoves him, and the obviously tipsy man simply giggles, taking the physical onslaught with a shit eating smile. 

“Why are we fighting Haechan?” Comes a tired voice, and Jaehyun tosses his body onto the couch, landing half on top of all three of you with his head in your lap.

“Haechan’s being a bad boy,” you respond, fingers finding Jaehyun’s soft, dark hair immediately, a habit you’d picked up years ago.

“Am not!” Haechan insists. “Tell me I'm wrong.”

You sigh loudly, rolling your eyes while Johnny chuckles.

“I’m missing something,” Jaehyun says from your lap, looking up at you with those pretty eyes of his, “tell me?” 

“All I said was that Y/N doesn't need to look for fuck buddies to get her dick wet because she’s already wet as shit,” Haechan states factually, which, to be fair, is a complete recount of what he’d said.

“And you know this for a fact?” Jaehyun teases, looking at his friend with an expression of smug disbelief.

“Well-” Haechan visibly shrinks, his shoulders slumping, his skin brightening with pretty pinks. “I mean-”

“For a moment there, I thought I'd missed a massive milestone in you guys' friendship,” Jaehyun says, letting out a sigh of relief as he gets comfortable in your lap again. He turns onto his side so he can nuzzle his face against your thighs, which he’s declared countless times to be the best pillows in the whole universe. “If the two of you started hooking up, I think the world would have to end.”

“It wouldn’t be that crazy,” Haechan fires back immediately, and his ears turn an even brighter red.

“It would be crazy that out of the three of us, she’d choose you,” Johnny says smoothly.

Haechan holds up a hand as if he’s going to hit his friend, and Johnny stiffens in his seat, his carefree expression turning stern in an instant. “It’s my birthday we’re celebrating right now,” he reminds his younger friend. “Show some respect.”

Haechan groans but lets his hand fall to his lap again. 

You’ve never met a trio of guys so centered around their birthdays.

These three are constantly utilizing their positions, whether it’s by Johnny expecting respect as the ‘oldest’, or Haechan playing baby.

“I think she’d choose me,” Jaehyun says in an almost wistful manner from your lap, turning to look up at you so he can reach a hand to play with your hair.

You think it’s interesting to be talking about this, especially since this very question has been on your mind so frequently as of late. It had been on your mind when Johnny first sat down, and now here it is again.

“She’s not choosing you, Jaehyun,” Johnny scoffs. “She hates your hookup culture.”

“My hookup culture?” Jaehyun laughs, lifting his head so he’s able to look at Johnny by his feet. “Says you!”

“How did I ever become friends with three man sluts?” you sigh teasingly, shaking your head at your constant companions, who erupt into chaos. 

“You love us,” Johnny insists, while Jaehyun defends his behaviour, and Haechan pretends to look scandalized at the notion of being a ‘man slut’. 

The bickering subsides when Doyoung’s voice bellows “Haechan!” from somewhere else in the house, and your foursome dissipates quickly thereafter.

You find your way to Jungwoo, who is trying his best to be helpful in the kitchen as the festivities wind down.

It’s just the core group of friends left in the mock frat house now, and before you know it, everyone is in the kitchen. Conversation is easy, and another hour ticks by before Doyoung finally pushes off from where he’s standing by a wall to announce he’s heading home. 

There’s a brief discussion over cars and who is sober enough to drive, and once his friends are accounted for, Doyoung turns to you. “Do you need a ride home?”

“She’s staying here,” Haechan says before you can answer, his arms wrapping around you tightly. It’s not uncommon for you to sleep over at the ‘mojo dojo casa man house’, as Haechan had dubbed it when they moved in. In fact, last year, you’d spent pretty much the entire summer here before the university term had started up again.

“As always,” Doyoung sighs as he puts his shoes on by the door, eyes assessing you and your three best friends. “Be careful with her.”

It’s a lasting joke in the friend group that everyone is waiting for Haechan to accidentally sit on you and break you- or maybe for Johnny to hug you a little too hard one day- 

“No promises,” Haechan grins happily, tightening his embrace around you until it borders on being painful. 

You can’t stand him sometimes.

You love him so much.

“Call me if they’re too demanding and you need an escape,” Doyoung warns you, earning some irritated sounds from your friends, who are eager to have you to themselves.

“She’s ours,” Jaehyun insists, arms wrapping around you so you’re now sandwiched between him and Haechan. 

Doyoung rolls his eyes as the final person in your group slides up against your back, resting his chin on top of your head. “We’ll take care of her,” Johnny promises.

You’re truly trapped now. 

The moment the door is closed behind Doyoung, sealing you in with your best friends, Jaehyun and Haechan jump into action. The younger of the two grabs your arm, dragging you towards the living room, while Jaehyun mirrors the motion on your opposite side, in the direction of the kitchen. 

Johnny tightens his grip on your waist, making it clear he’s not intent on moving. 

“What’s the plan?” The man behind you asks.

“Movie,” Haechan states.

“More drinks first,” Jaehyun insists.

“What do you think, Squeak?” Johnny’s fingers press gently into the skin of your hips, and you can feel the warmth of him through your thin shirt, his heart beating steadily at your back. 

You hate it when he makes you choose between activities. Why do you always have to be the Haechan and Jaehyun tie breaker? 

“I don’t care.”

“Movies,” Haechan states again, pulling on your arm.

Jaehyun tugs your other side. “Drinks first.” 

Johnny sighs. “I’ll go choose a movie with Haechan, and you two can make us drinks. But make it something good, okay? I need to get the Doyoung mix taste out of my mouth.”

“No promises,” Jaehyun grins, pulling you away from Haechan successfully this time.

Johnny catches your eye, and you laugh, a silent agreement to do your best to keep Jaehyun under control in the booze department. 

“You,” Jaehyun grabs at your waist when you reach the kitchen, “go here.” He lifts you up and sets you onto the countertop. “And I’ll make the drinks.” He smiles up at you, and you laugh at how cute he gets when he’s tipsy.

“Did you really need me to come help you then?”

“It’s really helpful for you to sit there and tell me I'm the best bartender in the house.”

“Like that’s a hard title to win,” you roll your eyes.

Haechan can’t cook (or do anything of the sort) to save his life, and Johnny- well, Johnny has a taste for cheap beer, which disqualifies him immediately from the race. 

You have to admit, Jaehyun moves like a professional. He glides from cupboard to counter, grabbing glasses and setting them up next to you. You watch the way his body moves, muscles visible with each motion, and when he shakes one of the drinks, you have to tear your eyes from his biceps.

He might be the leanest of your three friends, but he’s still much taller than you, and most women, for that matter. 

You’re so busy watching Jaehyun’s back that you don’t realize he’s paused his fluid motions. He turns, and you see he’s put an apron on- the one that says ‘kiss the chef’. Jungwoo had bought it for Johnny for Secret Santa one year in an effort to get Johnny to agree to barbecue more often. 

You cock a brow at your best friend as he slips between your legs, hands finding the counter on either side of your hips. “So?” He grins. “You gonna kiss the chef or what?”

You laugh. “Not sure you even qualify as a chef when you just said you’re a bartender.” But you grab his chin all the same, forcing Jaehyun to the side so you can plant your lips on his cheek. 

Jaehyun’s smiling when you let him go, appearing satisfied, and he returns to his drink making.

Within minutes, he has all four orders ready to go, and he carries a tray to the living room with you in tow. 

As Jaehyun sets the tray down, Haechan quickly reads the apron, stands, and sighs. “Well, if you insist.” He grabs Jaehyun and presses his lips to his cheek, much like you had.

Jaehyun recoils with disgust, shoving Haechan, only to be attacked on the other side by Johnny, who manages to get a kiss placed right below Jaehyun’s ear that has him shivering and jumping back, hiding behind you. “Save me, Squeak!” 

“You wore the apron!” Haechan laughs, and you know he leaps at any opportunity to terrorize his friends. 

“Just drink your drinks,” Jaehyun groans, taking off the piece of fabric that had just cost him another 2 of his 9 Jaehyun Cat Lives- you’ve seen him receive a sneak attack kiss from at least Jungwoo, and you’re pretty sure Taeyong as well, so you wonder how many Jaehyun Cat Lives are even left. 

“Remember when I sat next to you earlier?” Johnny says in your ear, arms wrapping around you as he pulls you down onto the couch. “And asked you what you were thinking?”

“Something stupid.”

“Yeah.” Johnny lets you get seated next to him, but he keeps an arm around you, eyes briefly moving to Jaehyun and Haechan, who are bickering about the movie on the other side of the couch. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

You laugh.

The man from Chicago grins, but there’s something serious in his eyes. “I’ll go first if you want.” His voice is softer this time, and the tone of the discussion has shifted entirely. 

“Johnny-”

“I was thinking about how good you look tonight.”

“Johnny-” Your voice is something near a whimper. You’re shocked and left speechless at the turn of events that have just been orchestrated by your best friend. He’s told you how pretty you are before, but there’s something about the way he’s saying it now- it’s different.

“Your turn,” he says, one large hand finding your thigh, smoothing up and down the denim that covers you from him. “What were you thinking about?”

You can’t tell him that you were thinking about him, Haechan and Jaehyun- that you were trying, for the billionth time, to decide which of the three you prefer the most- because if you were going to potentially ruin things with the other two, you want to know you are doing it with the right one-

But no matter how many times you’ve run it through your brain, you’ve come up empty-handed. Unable to choose. 

How do you say that to him?

“What are you two talking about?” Jaehyun’s voice is your saving grace, and he puts the drink he’d made for you into your hands. “She looks like she’s seen a ghost.”

“I just told her what we were all thinking,” Johnny shrugs.

“Liar. I was not thinking,” Haechan states, turning to look at you as he takes a deep breath. “What wasn’t I thinking?”

“That she looks good tonight,” Johnny says. 

However, when Johnny says it, he says it in a tone that’s friendly. 

He doesn’t say it as he had a few seconds ago, with a voice that was low and seductive. 

You can’t believe him.

“It is a nice outfit,” Jaehyun agrees lightheartedly, leaning back against the couch and propping his feet up on the coffee table in front of you.

“Okay, but hear me out.” Haechan sits up in his seat, his hands hovering as if he’s going to say something profound- “I always thought-” a pause, taken to ponder, big eyes blinking, “outfits like that are meant to be ripped off in like, an hour? Two hours- tops. How are you still wearing that?”

You all groan, but Johnny’s grip around you tightens. “He does have a point,” Johnny says. “Do you want to change into a hoodie and some sweatpants?”

You roll your eyes. “Are we all going to ignore the fact that he practically said I look like-”

“A pretty little whore,” Jaehyun interrupts you with a grin, his dimples perky amidst his alcohol blushed cheeks. “It’s okay, you look like that a lot of the time.” 

You stare at Jaehyun with shock for a moment, and then you look at Johnny, confidence flooding through your body. If they’re going to call you a pretty little whore, and touch your thighs, and be like this- well, you can play too.

“The stupid thing I was thinking about earlier was who out of the three of you I want to fuck the most, or at least, who I’d risk it all for.”

Johnny meets your gaze with an intense look of his own, and he licks his lips. “Go on,” he prompts, voice hoarse and sexy. “Who’d you pick?”

“I wasn’t able to pick. I never am,” you respond, turning sideways in your corner section of the couch, facing your body towards the three insanely handsome men you call best friends. 

Haechan is looking at you with wide eyes, jaw dropped, and Jaehyun is sitting perfectly still, and Johnny is meeting your gaze straight on, with an intensity unlike anything you’ve ever seen.

You swallow thickly. “Do you guys want to hear a dirty little secret?”

Johnny’s hand squeezes your thigh, and it’s Haechan who mumbles a whiny, “Yes.”

“Since I’m never able to pick-” you reach out, tracing a finger across Johnny’s collarbone, still hidden by his shirt, “I usually just end up imagining all three of you, and end up even more confused than when I started.”

“Well,” Johnny grabs you by the waist and easily pulls you to be straddling his lap. Dark eyes gaze up into yours. “I think we can help you figure it out.”

He leans in, and just as he’s about to kiss you, you tilt your head, his lips making contact with your cheek.

Johnny groans, fingers digging into your hips, and you laugh. “Come on, you know I can’t just risk all our friendships like this-”

“Why not?” Jaehyun moves closer, a hand reaching up to grab the back of your head, forcing you to look at him.

“Because what if I like all three of you the same?” you ask, looking past Jaehyun’s shoulder at Haechan, who is seated farthest from you on the couch, and is now being all but blocked out. 

“Then you like all three of us,” Johnny says, his hands applying pressure to your hips, forcing you down so you can feel how hard he is against your core. Even with both your pants in the way, you can tell he’s turned on, and it only makes you wetter. You stop a groan just as it’s about to escape your lips.

“I told you,” you breathe as Jaehyun releases his hold on your neck so you can look at the man under you again, “I’m not into your hookup culture.”

“This isn’t just going to be a hookup, and we all know it,” Johnny tells you, leaning up to have access to you again, only for you to turn your cheek at the last moment, repeating your behaviour from before. 

“Have any of you even had a foursome?” you question, and you’re pretty sure the answer is no. If they had, you’re sure you would have heard about it. 

“No, but it won’t be much different from a threesome,” Jaehyun muses, his fingers dancing up and down your arm, eyes taking in your form with a glimmer of darkness that you identify as lust.

He’s never looked at you like this before... at least, not that you’ve noticed.

“Says the guy literally excluding dude number three,” you laugh, meeting Haechan’s dumbstruck gaze again. “What do you think, Hyuck?”

“I think-” the youngest man coughs, clearing his throat. “I think we should take this to the bedroom where there’s more space.”

“Good idea.” Johnny stands abruptly, and you grab his shoulders to steady yourself, his hands slipping down to your ass, effectively holding you up while you cling to his front like a koala bear. 

“Hey!” You turn to nip at Johnny’s ear gently with your teeth, the biggest scolding you can do in this position. “I haven’t even said yes yet.”

“Sure you haven't,” Johnny breathes, continuing through the house towards the bedrooms. 

Jaehyun and Haechan are following close behind, and they walk shoulder to shoulder. You let your eyes take in their differences. There’s Haechan with his mischievous expressions and all black aesthetic- then there’s Jaehyun, looking as ethereal and statuesque as always. 

“You guys really think this won’t ruin anything?” you ask, letting your anxieties truly show as Johnny steps over the threshold into his room.

“How could it ruin anything?” Johnny retorts, placing you onto his bed before straightening to look down at you.

“It could ruin everything,” you frown. “What if one of you gets jealous-”

“Jaehyun?” 

“Yes, Johnny?”

“Are you going to get jealous if I fuck her brains out?”

“No.” A pause, then; “Hey, Haechan, are you going to get jealous?”

“Nope.”

“See?” Johnny grins down at you, and you groan, grabbing one of his pillows and covering your face with it. 

“You’re not getting it-” you whine, removing the pillow after a moment. 

“Then explain why you’re so worried.” Johnny reaches down and grabs one of your socks, pulling it off your foot even as you try to kick him away- he’s always going after your ticklish spots and you are not interested in him being a freaking tickle sadist right now. 

“I’m worried, because you say it’s not going to be a hookup, but then you also say that you can all apparently promise not to catch feels and get jealous-”

“Who promised not to catch feels?” Now it’s Jaehyun snatching at your foot to remove your second sock, and you’re left kicking at the three men at the end of the bed with bare feet. 

“Our little Pip Squeak doesn’t get it,” Johnny tuts with a grin. “Haechan, explain things to her.”

Your gaze moves to the youngest man in the room. He’s off center, on Jaehyun’s right side, and he’s watching you with an oddly pure expression. 

Haechan rubs the back of his neck, cocking his head at you. “You’re not the only one who’s thought about all this stuff,” he says. “The three of us- we’ve talked about this sort of thing happening-”

“You have?” you ask in shock, this being the first time you’ve ever heard of this.

“Of course we have Squeak,” Jaehyun says, using your distracted state to grab at you, striking faster than a snake, and getting your ankle in a harsh grip that he uses to drag you down the bed towards them.

“And we all agreed,” Johnny explains, “that whoever you choose, the other two won't get upset.”

“And now that we know you want all of us-” Jaehyun has dragged you all the way to the foot of the bed, and he releases your ankle in favour of latching onto the rolled cuff of your jeans, tugging gently. “What’s there to be upset about?”

“Besides,” Johnny lets out a small chuckle, “Haechan’s already been telling girls who hit on him at bars that he’s dating you so they back off. He’s a little more committed to you than Jaehyun or I can afford to be without knowing you return the feelings.”

Your eyes shift to Haechan again, and you notice how the redness has returned to his ears. He’s looking down at the floor, and your heart swells with emotion.

You look between your best friends, “So you three-” 

“Have been hopelessly in love with you for years, Squeak.” Johnny finishes for you. “So let us take care of you. And don't be worried about the consequences. There are none.”

“Are you sure about that?” You cock a brow. “I think if Doyoung finds out about this, he might have a heart attack.”

“Like I said, only good outcomes,” Johnny chuckles, then he holds out a hand for you. “Come here.” You reach for him, and Johnny easily pulls you to your feet, bringing you close until you’re chest to chest. “Let us help you learn not to worry so much, hmm?”

One of his hands comes to cup your face, thumb brushing across your cheekbone lovingly. Johnny looks down at you with dark eyes that have stars in them, and you let out a breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding. 

You trust Johnny, and you trust Jaehyun, and Haechan. 

With one final ‘please, Lord Jesus or whoever is up in the sky- please let this not end badly,’ you feel a surge of adrenaline run through you, and it gives you the courage to lurch onto your tiptoes, throw your arms around the back of Johnny’s neck. You press your lips to his for the very first time, and it’s as if a wave of electricity runs through your entire body.

Johnny’s hands immediately slip down to your waist, and he tugs you closer, kissing you back. He captures your lower lip between his own, suckling on it for a moment before letting his teeth drag against you, earning a small sound that rises out of your chest before you can even stop it.

Johnny grins against your lips briefly before kissing you harder, prompting you to open your mouth and allow his tongue to glide across your teeth. His hand slips down from your waist to your ass, giving you a delicious squeeze-

And then two new hands are grabbing your hips, forcibly making you turn, taking Johnny with you. Someone presses against your back, and it’s easy for you to guess who it is. 

Jaehyun’s fingers dig into your hips, pulling your lower body away from Johnny and back towards the new man behind you. Jaehyun grinds against you, his lips finding your neck and sending a shiver through your body at the new, unexpected contact. 

You find yourself reaching behind you, finding Jaehyun’s hair and lacing your fingers through it, tugging gently and earning a groan that reverberates against your throat. 

Jaehyun’s teeth graze your jugular and Johnny breaks your kiss in favour of going at the other side of your neck, one of his hands grabbing at your jaw and pushing up, giving both men more space as they suck little love bites into your skin. 

Now that your mouth isn’t covered with Johnny’s, your sounds slip out unhindered, little whimpers of delight that earn growls of interest from the men all but claiming your throat - your very breath - as theirs. 

Then you remember the youngest man missing from this equation, and his name tumbles from your lips. “Haechan-”

Johnny's knuckles darkly against your throat, and then he adjusts the grip, still pushing at your chin, so he can insert two fingers into your mouth. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?” Johnny asks, nipping at your earlobe. “Saying Haechan’s name while Jaehyun and I worship you like this.”

You moan around his fingers, blindly grabbing at Johnny’s belt to drag him closer. 

“You want him first, don’t you, Squeak?” Jaehyun hisses against your neck. “You always care about your baby boy first, isn’t that right?” He pulls his face away from your skin, and a moment later, his fingers are wrapping around your throat, squeezing. 

You moan around Johnny’s fingers, and he removes them from your mouth, both men giving you enough space to answer them.

“Yes,” you gasp, pushing your ass back against Jaehyun, “Haechan deserves it.”

Fingers squeeze your neck again, and Jaehyun’s lips brush by your ear when he asks, “And we don’t?”

You let out a groan when Johnny pushes his leg between your thighs, and it’s the first real contact on your core, sending shivers of pleasure through your body. “You two stole my socks.”

The men caging you in begin to laugh, and if you weren’t so distracted by their hands on you- their massive bodies locking you in between them- you might have laughed as well, but the most you can do is latch onto Johnny’s shoulders when he pushes his thigh up against you harder. 

“Fine,” Johnny says, voice low. His hand comes to cup your face, and you open your eyes to look up at him. “You can have Haechan first. But if you were anyone else- I’d make him wait.”

“Let's make him wait,” Jaehyun suggests behind you, and a moment later, he’s latching his lips onto your neck again, finding your sweet spot and exploiting it for the pretty gasps that immediately leave you.

“So you’re going to say no to her?” Johnny laughs, rubbing his nose against yours gently before kissing you with the same softness.

Behind you, Jaehyun groans, and you know he’s been defeated.

“How are we going to do this?” Jaehyun asks, and you realize nearly immediately that he’s not talking to you.

Johnny stops kissing you to consider it for a moment, even turning to look at the bed. Then he says, “Haechan sitting against the headboard, Squeak on his lap, you can be behind.”

“And you?” You grab the front of Johnny’s shirt, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“I’ll wait,” he assures you. “Someone has to tell these two which positions are going to work.”

“I know positions,” Jaehyun mutters behind you, making both you and Johnny laugh.

Jaehyun must not like being laughed at, because his hands grab your hips and he roughly turns you to face him, looking down at you with a dark gaze. “You think this is funny?” He grabs your face, nearly shaking with what looks to be repressed emotion, and all your laughter dies in your throat. “You have no idea how long we’ve-” he groans, unable to finish his sentence. 

“Then show me.”

He grabs your face with both hands, smashing his lips to yours.

If Johnny had been eager but collected, Jaehyun is the opposite side of the same coin, eager and extremely enthusiastic, his tongue clashing against yours immediately. His thumb presses against your cheekbone as he kisses you, and then his hands disappear for a moment, only for your shirt to be torn off your body.

Jaehyun’s lips move to your neck, and you let out a gasp, fingers threading in his hair while his mouth begins its descent.  His lips press sloppy kisses to your collarbones and then the swell of your breasts, one of his large hands splaying across the small of your back-

He grabs at the latch of your bra, and you whimper, body tingling with anticipation-

While Jaehyun undoes the clasp, a new set of hands finds your shoulders, pushing the straps of your bra down gently. Lips press butterfly kisses against the nape of your neck and your shoulders, a stark contrast to Jaehyun, who successfully gets your bra off and moves his attention to your breasts. 

“Fuck-” Jaehyun groans, cupping your left boob in his hand and kneading it while his tongue darts out to tease your other nipple- then he’s grabbing at your legs, lifting you up while the man behind you gets out of the way, allowing Jaehyun to toss you onto the bed, his body landing on top of yours. 

Jaehyun’s mouth continues its downward trajectory, and then his fingers are finding the waistband of your jeans, tugging roughly- only to allow the denim to fall back to your skin. Jaehyun looks up at you and you gnaw at your lower lip, your own hands moving to undo the button, then the zipper- and when you lift your hips, Jaehyun immediately follows through and helps you pull your jeans off. 

“You’re in for it now,” Johnny chuckles darkly, and your gaze shifts to the man from Chicago, who has moved to sit in his gaming chair and is facing the bed with an amused expression on his face. 

You don’t have to ask what Johnny is talking about.

It’s a running joke amongst your male friends that Jaehyun loves giving oral- it’s one of the things you’ve spent a lot of time fantasizing about, and now that he’s between your legs, he definitely delivers.

Jaehyun pushes your thighs up to your chest, letting out a soft groan when he brings his mouth to your panty-covered core. He places an open-mouthed kiss on your entrance, tongue pressing against the fabric of your underwear and making your legs twitch.

“Are you seriously going to tease her while we’re standing here waiting?” Haechan groans next to you, and you have to admit, you agree with his exasperated tone.

“I'm not forcing you to stand there and watch,” Jaehyun responds quickly, fingers hooking in your panties. When he pulls the fabric to the side, his breath fanning over your heated core. A shiver runs across your body, and your hands instinctively reach for his hair. 

“Jaehyun-” you whimper, voice betraying your need.

Your friend looks up at you with mischievous eyes and a grin, then he brings his face to your heat, dragging his tongue across your entrance teasingly. His hands adjust your legs, pushing them up against your chest harder, spreading you open as he places his entire mouth onto you, tongue pushing into your wet hole.

Your fingers tug at his hair, and you gasp, back arching. It feels like little shocks of happiness are scattering across your skin. 

The bed dips next to you, and then a familiar hand covers your breast, thumb brushing over your pebbled nipple, earning another sound of pleasure from deep within you. 

Haechan looks down at you, eyes full of focus, and your heart lurches in your chest. You grab your youngest lover boy, pulling him to your lips.

He’s surprised at first, but it only takes a moment for Haechan to start kissing you back, his body shifting as he shuffles closer, leaning half over you so he can kiss you harder while his fingers pinch at your nipple. 

Everything feels so good- you don’t even know where to focus. Being touched by two of your best friends while the third watches is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. There’s something building inside of you, call it lust or love- regardless, it’s undeniable, and to make matters worse, it’s all-consuming too. 

Jaehyun sucks at your clit, and you shiver, legs closing around his head as a sudden orgasm erupts through your body. You grab at Haechan’s shoulders, moaning desperately into his mouth while Jaehyun continues to lick and slurp at your entrance. Then, a moment later, two of his fingers push into you, and you think this must be the most wonderful feeling your body has ever felt.

Jaehyun’s digits curl up, and you can hear your pussy squelching even over the gasps and whimpers that are escaping you.

Haechan’s moved his kisses to your neck, and your noises of pleasure fill the space, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Jaehyun lets up when your legs truly begin to shake, and when he pulls away, your feet fall flat on the mattress, knees closing.

Haechan’s still working on your neck, one hand worshiping your breast, but after a moment, the hand begins to move downward. He drags his palm along the outside of your leg, up to your knee, then he applies a bit of pressure, prompting your thighs to open. 

Haechan adjusts above you, moving between your legs slowly. He gives you time to push him away, but the moment he’s pressing down against your core, your thighs tighten around his waist. 

“Haechan?” You blink up at him.

“Yeah?” His voice is shaky, as if he’s as confused about this turn of events as you are.

You push at his shoulders, and Haechan lets up, allowing you to roll, switching positions so you’re now on top of him. Your friend’s hands find your hips, and you grab at his shirt, prompting him to sit up so he can remove it easily. 

His lips find your breasts the moment he discards the fabric, and his fingers splay across your back, keeping you close while he moves his kisses up to your neck. He reaches your lips moments later, and you push on his shoulders, causing you both to fall back onto the bed, your hands pressed to his chest, which flexes beneath you. 

You roll your hips, and you can feel Haechan’s cock pressing up against his jeans. You avoid the obnoxious buckle on the belt that he’d found thrifting last December, you’d always known there was a reason you hated it, but have never been able to put your finger on it- now, you realize it’s because it makes Haechan’s crotch about as inviting as a chastity belt. 

“Off,” you mumble against your friend’s lips, reaching a hand between your bodies to tug at the belt buckle before releasing it. Haechan had the audacity to put the damned thing on, he can remove it too.

Large hands fumble, metal brushes your exposed abdomen and makes you shiver, Haechan kisses you deeper in response, managing to get the belt off with one hand while the other returns to cup your face. He’s pulling the leather band completely out of the rings of his pants and throwing it to the side a moment later, and as soon as it’s gone, your hands return to the waistband of his jeans. 

The two of you make quick work of undressing him, and before you know it, he’s bare in front of you, and you’re practically drooling at how big he is.

You lick your lips, kissing Haechan quickly, then begin your descent. He shivers when you kiss his abdomen, and your fingers wrap around his cock a moment later, earning another hiss, as well as a hand in your hair.

Haechan looks down at you and you meet his eyes, bringing your mouth to the head of his cock and kitten licking. The gorgeous man lets out a strangled gasp, throwing his head back into the pillows, hips lifting off the bed, and he releases his hold on your hair to grip the bed sheets. You humour the needy man, sinking your mouth onto his length, taking as much of him as you can.

A hand lands on your ass, surprising you and making you jolt, which sends Haechan into the back of your throat. You gag, pulling away from Haechan while your hand continues to pump him, and you look over your shoulder at Jaehyun. 

“I know you said you wanted him first.” The pretty man grabs a fistful of your hair, pulling you up and away from Haechan so your back is now to Jaehyun’s chest. He runs his tongue from your shoulder up to your ear, and you shiver at the cool stripe it leaves in its wake. “But what if I fuck you while you suck him off? There’s no reason you can’t take us both, hmm?”

You gnaw on your lower lip, nodding eagerly, and Jaehyun releases a deep chuckle of amusement. He lets you go, shoving your back down roughly, and you eagerly return to your task, mouth wrapping around Haechan once more.

You feel Jaehyun rip your panties at the waist, and you can’t bring yourself to care; taking them off completely would have required you to adjust positions, and it would have taken way too long. 

One of Jaehyun’s hands lands on the small of your back, and it glides down your spine while you feel him lining up with your entrance. He coats himself in your slick first, rutting against you but not pushing inside, and you groan around Haechan, toes curling with anticipation.

Jaehyun chuckles behind you, and then he thrusts into you all at once, both hands moving to grip your hips. “Try not to choke, sweetheart,” Jaehyun warns, and you just know he’s grinning like the complete asshole that he is-

His first thrust sends you forward suddenly, and you nearly gag, groaning at how quickly he’d almost made you fail his warning. You pull your mouth off of Haechan, fist pumping up and down his length while you suckle on the head, finding this less risky with Jaehyun behind you and at full energy. 

Haechan doesn’t seem to mind the change, and one of his hands comes down to cover yours, applying pressure that tells you to squeeze him harder. You follow through, and the man below you lets out a groan. 

The sound of praise goes straight to your core, and you feel yourself tighten around Jaehyun, who reacts with a laugh, then smacks you across your ass just enough to sting.

You whimper, a little shocked at just how much you’re enjoying Jaehyun being rough with you. An orgasm is building in the pit of your stomach, and you rest your head on Haechan’s thigh, eyes closing, allowing yourself to enjoy the feeling of Jaehyun fucking you silly with even more intensity. 

“She feels so good,” Jaehyun groans, and you whimper in response, adoring how he’s ignoring you and talking about you to the others like this.

“Don’t rub it in,” Johnny’s deep voice sends a tingle rushing through your entire being, you’d almost forgotten he was there.

Jaehyun simply laughs, and his hips rut into you faster and harder- you’d thought he’d be losing energy by now, not fucking you even better-

“Gonna cum for me, Squeak?” Jaehyun grabs your hair, and he hauls you up to his chest for the second time tonight. His hand moves to your throat to keep you where he wants you, and his strong forearm is like a security bar holding you up where it presses across your chest, allowing his other hand to grasp your breast roughly. 

You can’t respond, but you manage a nod, and Jaehyun’s amused laugh at the motion sends you over the edge. You throw your head back onto Jaehyun’s shoulder, pulse thumping loudly in your head from the way he’s cutting off your oxygen with the hand still on your throat.

You can feel him everywhere. 

Your fingers latch onto his wrist, not to pull him away, but to anchor yourself as waves of pleasure wash over your entire body. Jaehyun is steady behind you, and he works you through your orgasm with a pace that turns erratic as his own high becomes nearly too much for him to bear.

When he finally slows down, releasing your neck, you take a strangled breath. You feel a soft kiss to your shoulder, and then the roughness returns, with Jaehyun pushing you onto Haechan’s chest.

The maknae catches you, holding you close while you try to find your breath. But when you shift, and feel Haechan’s cock twitch with interest where it’s pressed between your bodies, you’re determined to pull yourself together and fuck all three of your friends. You can’t stop now.

Your hand forms a fist, and you push yourself up, looking down at Haechan. Then you lift your hips, grabbing your friend’s cock to guide him to your entrance. You sit down just as Haechan’s hands find your waist, a wide-eyed look on his face. 

He's big. Considering the fact that Haechan is the shortest of your three friends, you’re shocked at how thick he is. 

And with you sitting on top, he fills you completely

Your wet core flutters around the new intrusion, and you curse yourself for ever having thought prep with Jaehyun - who to be fair, had felt to be quite well endowed himself - would prepare you for Hyuck, who is spreading you open deliciously.

You press your palms flat to Haechan’s chest, and you lift yourself a few inches before sinking back onto his length, a whimper leaving your lips as your body adjusts. He feels so good splitting you open like this-

Haechan’s fingers press into your hips, lifting you slightly, only to slam you back down onto his cock, and you nearly wail from pleasure. He adjusts his feet on the bed behind you so he can thrust up into you better, and you find yourself becoming practically a rag doll for your friend below you, who manhandles you despite your top position. 

You don’t care that Haechan’s taken the power from you. Your mind goes blank, unable to think about anything other than how good he feels-

“Sit up and move to the headboard so you can lean against it.” Johnny’s voice interrupts your pleasure haze, and your eyes open when Haechan moves, following through with the instruction and dragging you with him. 

“Now you, Squeak,” a hand brushes by your shoulders, and you shiver, “turn around. Face away from Haechan for me.”

You do as you’re told, and two pairs of hands help you. They even ensure you sit back on Haechan’s cock, and he groans. You feel him press against your back, his hand snaking around your front to play with your clit, lips finding your shoulder.

Haechan’s legs are spread ever so slightly, and Johnny is kneeling there in front of you. 

In this position, it’s almost hard to look up at Johnny, and your hands press down into the bed, arms straight and holding you above Haechan’s knees while you grind back against him in something like reverse cowgirl.

The good thing is, you don’t have to look up at Johnny, and your eyes immediately lock on your target. Your hands move to undo Johnny’s pants- only for Haechan to push into you, making your balance falter, almost causing you to fall flat on your face- but you catch yourself at the last moment. 

Johnny laughs above you. “Our little chew toy,” he says fondly, beginning to undo his belt. “I'd love to hear you squeak, but I need your mouth for other things.”

He pushes his pants down, revealing the largest cock of all three of your friends. You’re practically drooling now, your core tightening around Haechan, who is still gently fucking up into you. 

Johnny guides himself to your lips, and you eagerly accept him, whimpering with delight when his hand finds your hair. He’s going to facefuck you while Haechan thrusts into you from behind in the reverse cowgirl Eiffel Tower hybrid position you’ve found yourself in, and you know it’s going to be absolutely delightful. 

You give yourself up completely to Johnny and Haechan, their little chew toy, and your whole body floods with pleasure from them using you. 

You hollow your cheeks around Johnny, and he fucks your mouth harder, cock hitting the back of your throat.

“Fuck!” Haechan groans loudly behind you. “She gets to fucking tight when you do that-”

“Then I'll do it again,” Johnny says simply from above you, and he continues to fuck your face, making sure to press into your throat a second time. 

Haechan moans even louder, fingers digging into your waist, confirmation that choking onJohnny’s cock makes your pussy squeeze like a vice grip.

He continues to fuck your face and you get lost in the sensation. Usually sucking cock isnt your favourite thing in the world, but in this position, time seems to slip away from you. 

“Can you just cum already?!” Johnny says, and you know by his tone that he’s speaking to the man behind you.

“No, you cum! I’m not cumming in this position!” Haechan argues back.

“The fuck you aren't!”

“I’m not,” Haechan says, voice something near a growl.

Johnny groans a moment later. “Guess it’s my turn,” He mutters, pulling out of your mouth suddenly.

You look up at him with teary eyes as he pumps his cock-

“Don’t cum on her, or in her mouth!” Haechan commands from behind you.

Three “what!?”’s ring through the room, one coming from yourself, but with another massive groan, Johnny follows through with even this ridiculous command, and Jaehyun tosses him a shirt in record time to use in lieu of your body. You all look at the fabric, realizing it’s Haechan’s- and Johnny explodes into his friend’s shirt with a laugh.

Haechan groans loudly, lifting you off of his cock and tossing you onto the bed next to him. He’s between your legs an instant later, pushing back into you as he captures your mouth with his own.

He fucks you fluidly, with a rhythm that’s just the right speed, and he fills you so perfectly-

You dig your fingers into Haechan’s shoulders, your orgasm washing over you like waves of warm sunshine. You bury your face against Haechan’s neck, whimpering while Haechan echoes your sounds with groans of his own.

One of his hands is on your hip, and he squeezes you gently there, rhythm faltering, thrusts becoming slower but harder, more intimate. 

You find yourself lacing your fingers in his silky hair, dragging his face from your shoulder so you can kiss him, losing yourself in his lips as your orgasm subsides and Haechan slows down to a standstill. 

Neither of you moves for a few seconds, simply breathing together, feeling each other’s hearts racing through your compressed chests. Then Haechan takes a deep breath and pushes himself off of you. 

“I’m going to the shower,” he announces. 

Johnny groans, following the younger man a moment later, and you’re left with Jaehyun.

Jaehyun has his sweat pants on, and he comes to sit on the end of the bed, fingers brushing against your ankle. You pull your leg away, looking down at him suspiciously. You don’t want to be tickled right now, and you definitely can’t go another round-

“Relax,” Jaehyun says with a laugh, shifting closer. He shows you a wet cloth in his hand. “With Johnny in the shower, there’s no way you’d get any water, and something tells me Haechan’s going to monopolize on space too,” he muses, bringing the warm fabric to the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “Let me take care of you.”

You take a deep breath and rest against the pillows, closing your eyes and spreading your legs for Jaehyun. You let out a whimper when he brushes by your clit, and then his lips press a gentle kiss to your inner knee as if to say ‘sorry’, then he proceeds with more caution. 

“Jaehyun?” 

“Hmm?” He nuzzles his cheek against your knee, finishing his work.

“What you guys said earlier, about being in love with me-”

“You think we didn’t mean it?” He pulls away from you, hands closing your knees. 

You open your eyes, worried you’ve upset him, but then Jaehyun is lying down next to you, covering you both in a blanket and adjusting your body to turn you into his little spoon.

He curls around you, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

Your heart melts for him, especially when his hand slips over your waist, sneaking down to the bed in search of your fingers, which he promptly finds and captures between his own.

“This just feels like a dream,” you sigh, closing your eyes, trying to enjoy being with Jaehyun in this way without overthinking it.

Jaehyun laughs against your shoulder, pressing more kisses onto your skin. “Well, I promise to be here in the morning when you wake up, and the morning after that, and the morning after that-”

You laugh, rolling your eyes at your friend, who nips at your earlobe. You shiver at the contact of his lips on the sensitive shell of your ear. “Where did you learn to be so rough?” you ask. “I knew you had a reputation in bed, but you’re usually a lot more gentle in real life, and that was-”

“Did you like it rough, Squeak?” He squeezes you tightly, lips trailing along your neck. 

“Yeah.” You let out a breathy sound, toes curling when he focuses on the sweet spot below your ear, and you can feel Jaehyun smiling against it a moment later.

“I’ve noticed you have a thing for pain,” Jaehyun says. “Sometimes, when I hug you too tight, you let out these little sounds-” You feel your skin heating, knowing exactly what he’s talking about, and Jaehyun chuckles, squeezing your hand. “And what can I say?” Jaehyun’s teeth graze your shoulder. “I'm nothing if not a giver in bed.” 

Your pussy throbs at his words, and you push your ass back against him.

Jaehyun lets go of your fingers, and then his hand finds your thigh, moving from the outside in, and gliding up to your core. “Let me give you another one?” he asks, kissing your shoulder.

“I can’t believe you two.” Johnny’s voice always seems to shock you, and you think you’ll have to get used to being intimate with one person while two others watch and can jump in at any moment- 

“How was your shower?” Jaehyun asks, his warm body leaving yours in favour of sitting up to stare at the man standing in the doorway. You mirror the motion, pulling Jaehyun’s blanket with you.

“Haechan’s been in there the whole time. He just finished.” Johnny’s eyes move to you. “Come on, Squeak.” 

“I’ll come when you and Johnny are done,” Jaehyun tells you, turning and grabbing your jaw to keep you still while he presses a kiss to your lips. He’s gone much too fast for your liking, letting you go with a grin before collapsing back into the pillows. “Oh-” He says as you crawl from the bed, his hand grabbing the fabric that’s still wrapped around you, “and leave the blanket.”

Johnny laughs, grabbing your hands and pulling you to your feet. The air is cold against your exposed skin, but Johnny is quick to pull you to his warm chest. He turns you so you’re facing away from the door, and then he steps forward, forcing you to move back, step by step, all the way to the bathroom. He does this sort of thing with you frequently, usually when you’re clothed, so you’re used to this wordless behaviour.

You bump into Haechan, literally, as he’s exiting the bathroom, and suddenly it’s two warm bodies pressed against your own. 

Haechan is still wet from the shower, and droplets of cold water land on you, making you squeal.

Both men chuckle, and you begin to giggle, pressing up to Johnny in an effort to escape Haechan from dripping onto you. Your best friend, like the dog he is, deliberately shakes his head out to coat you even more. 

Johnny shoves Haechan before he can get too much splattered on the two of you, and pushes past the younger man. He helps you to the shower first, then kicks off his sweatpants, joining you under the warm water. 

Neither of you says anything, but you’ve been at this comfort level in your friendship for years now, and have often shared pleasant silences in each other’s company. 

Jaehyun keeps his promise and shows up when Johnny leaves. He holds you close to his chest, sharing the warm water with you.

When you exit the shower, Jaehyun hands you a shirt and some boxers, an outfit you’ve worn during many impromptu sleepovers here.

“My bed is biggest,” Jaehyun says as you exit the bathroom, and you laugh, knowing full well that all three men have queen mattresses because they’d gotten them in some weird three-for-one closing sale in your first year of university-

“Jaehyun-” You turn to argue, but your best friend bends down, lifts you up by your thighs, and tosses you over his shoulder. When you say his name this time, it’s a scream, and it makes him laugh. 

It also earns a groan from Johnny’s room, and a moment later, he appears, following the thief. 

Jaehyun tosses you onto his bed, getting under the covers with you and regaining his spot as the big spoon. He tucks you close to his chest, letting out a contented sigh.  

Johnny claims your other side soon after, lying on his back, allowing you to tangle your legs with one of his.

Haechan is last in the room.

He takes one look at you, sees you’re all but monopolized on either side, and in one motion, he flops his body over all three of your tired, and completely unsuspecting forms. 

There’s an immediate commotion and struggle, and you’re too tired to do anything but laugh, closing your eyes and knowing that you’re safe with your three best friends in the entire world.

☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! Blast from the past, revamped and newly edited

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🔮 preview.  You may have bitten off a little more than you can chew by being in a four-person coupling with you at the center of it, but you’re not stupid. You’re never going to forgo ultimate pleasures for the sake of other people’s moral leanings.

cw/ tw.  Unprotected sex, threesome, foursome, eiffel tower, blow job oral, vouyerism, masturbation, cum kink, bukkake, dirty talk, praise, man handling, Johnny once again has the monster cock syndrom, etc…   I petnames. (hers) Squeak.

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.3k I teaser wc. 140

🌙 starring. Johnny & Jaehyun & Haechan x afab!Reader

bonus

“I still don’t like it,” Doyoung sighs, watching you chat with Mark Lee while Haechan and Johnny block you in.

Jungwoo simply shrugs. “I guess it’s not about you liking it or not. They seem happy.”

“Too happy,” Doyoung notes, eyes narrowing in on the way Johnny’s hand has slipped down to your ass.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Jungwoo scoffs. “I think you’re just jealous.”

“Me? Jealous?” Doyoung shakes his head and forces a laugh. “What’s there to be jealous about?”

“The fact that you’re in pre-med, so you’re super busy, and you have zero game and haven’t kissed a girl in like, months,” Jungwoo points out. 

Doyoung’s glare shifts to the younger man, and with a final scoff, he turns to leave.

Jungwoo doesn’t mind, in fact, the energy in the room immediately brightens with Doyoung’s departure.

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[owlcafe]

Please feel free ignore my inane, barely-related ramblings

Perhaps the most memorable conversation of my life was with a bus driver, on the regular route I took home from university when I was a grad student. He and I had both landed a Tuesday graveyard shift, so I was the only person getting on this bus at 10pm or so. The week before, the bus had arrived late, while I was waiting, so this driver had come up to me and asked if I minded if he took his break now - apparently it was timed such that he would entitled to his break either now or after the return route. Without much thought I said something to the effect of "hell yeah brother rest up", for obvious enough reasons. The following week, it was raining, and I was scrambling to find cover in a place where I could still see the bus stop. The bus came early this time, and the driver rode up to the stop and let me on the bus early to get out of the rain. I didn't initially recognise him as the same driver, but apparently it had meant a lot to him that I hadn't flown into a rage insisting I be delivered home on schedule by an overworked and tired driver.

As you do, we got to talking, and the obvious course of the conversation was to ask what had gone wrong in our lives that we were mutually on this godforsaken bus at 10pm on a Tuesday night instead of doing literally anything else. His story was more or less what you expect - it was the best job available to him to make the kind of money you need to support a family these days. My story was simply that I'd signed on for a PhD, and with it a pretty good helping of teaching hours, including the occasional 5-9pm lab class (a process which, incidentally, more or less prevented me from having a driver's licence at the time. Don't worry about the details, but it's important to the story).

At this point, I had just begun the process of emerging from a series of self-loathing spirals - the one that stems from being an autistic child, then the one that comes from simply being 14, then the one that comes from being bisexual, then the one that comes from being non-binary, to the bonus round of growing up in a stereotypically male way while being non-binary and the unique way that makes you feel like your body is betraying you when your hair starts thinning at 19, and and fun and fresh ways these all bleed into each other. At some point in that whole whirlwind, I'd become quite convinced I wasn't going to make it out alive, despite never having any real risk to my life externally or even really internally, so my early to mid 20s were a period of discovering that I did indeed survive and now I needed a plan. This led to me falling into a lot of things just cause they sounded nice. I took a lot of odd jobs because they sounded interesting or paid well, I signed on to the PhD simply because I was asked to by my supervisor and I liked the idea of earning myself a gender neutral title, as if putting Dr [extremely common male name] on my mail was actually going to make people think twice about whether or not I was a man. This all to say, I was in the beginning of cultivating my "just a guy" self-image. It's easier, in that circumstance, to cut away the grandeur and the pompousness, because you can easily recognise them as fake. It's harder to cut away at the ways in which you undermine yourself, hate yourself, discredit yourself, because it feels like humility (and, especially in an emergent and incomplete social justice mindset, it's easy to invoke your privileges with the aesthetic of checking them, but the function of whipping yourself for "not earning" the things that you have, only further centralising your feelings as a member of the oppressor class).

To finally get to the point of all this, whenever you mention you're doing a PhD there's a pretty common social script that happens. The other person says that's very impressive, you bat it off, they say oh no I could never, and then you either make some joke about the absolute buffoons with PhDs you've inevitably met in your time in academia or just laugh awkwardly and move on. The bus driver starts the script normally, with an "oh that's very impressive" and I follow up with the canned response of "oh its not really all that, anyone could do what I'm doing". And then, I remember very precisely, he said "it seems that way to you because you can, the same way I think anyone could drive this bus because I can. But, I couldn't do what you do anymore than you could drive this bus."

And that pierced through it for me in a way that's really stuck with me. If I wanted to do the ivory tower academic thing, I could semantically dissect his statement - I could drive the bus and he could do my PhD, it's more accurate to say that the power structures surrounding us wouldn't have permitted it because I didn't have a licence to satisfy the local laws and he didn't have the educational background to pierce through the veil of graduate school exclusivity. I don't necessarily think it's literally true, what he said, but it was very powerful to me emotionally at the time. Because, in that moment in the bus at 10pm, we were both just some guy. We'd ended up in different places because of our circumstances, our identities, our choices, but we were still just some guy. In that moment, I had the same capabilities and limits as he did, just distributed differently. And for me, I'd spent most of my adolescence and much of my early 20s desperately projecting this ideal of like. A renaissance man, I guess? I needed people to believe that I was perfect, unlimited, infinitely skilled but also unflinchingly humble, lest they detect the parts of me that I assumed they would hate (because I hated them about myself). That someone I'd never really met before could so precisely and sincerely cut through it all, simultaneously denying me my instinct to degrade myself and reminding me that I am indeed subject to many and varied limitations, denying me even the privilege to bemoan that of course I can achieve these things because I'm white and middle class and so on, so I'm really not that remarkable. It really affected me. It brought me to a new level of being just some guy, and really helped me calibrate my vision of myself.

Obviously, it didn't fix everything in that single moment, but it helped me build a new frame I could use to look at things. If I started to feel shame or fear over not being able to do some particular thing that I wanted to do or felt compelled to do socially, I could remember that moment and how my path in life has given me limits as well as possibilities. And that's kept both halves of my ego in check ever since - I don't feel that I'm somehow entitled or should naturally have "lesser" skills on account of having access to "greater" ones (I can run advanced stats like nobody's business but I still can't drive a car), and I also don't feel the guilt and shame of not having certain skills that are considered basic because I have other skills that I've developed instead (yes I can't drive a car, but I can run advanced statistics).

I am once again just yapping with no real purpose but this idea really strikes a chord with me I guess. I just wanna say these things cause I want to. I don't particularly feel that there's untold wisdom or anything, it's a pretty milquetoast case of this whole thing occurring, but if anything I guess I feel compelled to pass on the wisdom I got from that bus driver that night. For better or for worse, we're all just some guy.

i really do believe that the answer to a lot of people's self hatred is not to try and reassure them that they are wonderful and okay and enough, but instead to remind them theyre a completely unremarkable regular ass person who is not the center of the universe or especially important so why would they expect themselves to be some superhuman savior. like there really is a kernel of out of control self importance at the heart of thinking youre an evil lazy piece of shit. because why would you expect you be anything but just like some guy. if you wouldnt expect the guy who works at the vape shop or your mailman or whatever to be able to do something then why would you expect yourself to? youre just some random ass person. its fine

[localvillagecryptid]

Shen Yuan transmigrates into a powerful ice demon and just goes "Oh neat! Cool clothes and I don't have to worry about dying!" And kicks his feet up to chill. He doesn't recognize his name, so he assumes he's just some terribly irrelevant mob character who happens to be rich and strong and is just glad to run around PIDW without any consequences. He manages to gather that he's some widower with a young son, so he immediately assumes he's in the clear from potentially being an enemy of Binghe's. His son is so quiet, and demons aren't great with giving names, so he doesn't even know what to call the boy at first. It feels odd to ask him what his name is. He just does his best with raising him in a way that he can only hope isn't too noticeably different than the way the original goods did it.

His son is still very quiet, but as he grows, he and Shen Yuan become closer. The little prince is such a sweet boy! He makes Shen Yuan little arts and crafts and leaves them on his desk to find. Anything from flower crowns to vaguely menacing knicknacs made of the bones of small animals. He'd be more scared if his son didn't seem so expectant of praise for the work. A few of them definitely resembled cursed idols, but who was he to judge his little demon son? There aren't any child rearing manuals, but from his own PIDW knowledge, this seemed developmentally on-track for demon kids.

But apparently the original goods wasn't rich and strong without consequence, because he's hounded with political matters before long. They're flooding his office with letters, hounding him for meetings, begging him to manage affairs in his territory. He's coming into contact with all these other powerful demons and has to pretend he's even slightly aware of what they're talking about.

During one of these meetings, some guy mentions the heavenly emperor, and Shen Yuan's like, "oh??? Binghe's here??? Already???" And he's furiously reworking his timeline, but the other demons are like, "who tf is Binghe. We're talking about Tianlang-Jun" and internally he's like, "who tf is Tianlang-Jun". Some poking around later, and he realizes he's REALLY far off from Binghes rise. Man's not even born yet. Honestly it makes him relax even more. He uses the time to get to know Tianlang-Jun a bit, just because he's so curious about Binghe's father! A full true Heavenly Demon! Not as cool as Binghe, who has both heavenly demonic and human cultivation abilities, but still cool! He's also just curious about the kind of man his blorbo's father was.

For some reason, Tianlang-Jun already has a son??? Upon closer inspection, a nephew? The conclusion, of course, is that something must've happened to both of them for them to not even be mentioned in the book. Deeply unfortunate, but not Shen Yuan's problem. Or that's what he would say, but Tianlang-Jun is seemingly very fond of him now. Something about being fellow single dads? He keeps bringing Zhuzhi-Lang around and foisting him onto Shen Yuan for a "play date" with Shen Yuan's son. Zhuzhi-Lang is a good boy, and very quiet, but he's also visibly older than Shen Yuan's son. Like, by a lot. But Shen Yuan is no expert on demonic aging rates, so maybe half snake demons just... look like grown adults? At this point, it's more like Zhuzhi-Lang is babysitting Shen Yuan's son while Tianlang-Jun fucks off somewhere without him. How irresponsible! But Shen Yuan accepts the free labor.

Years pass, his son grows- he also ends up with ice powers, as well as a spatial ability, though if Shen Yuan is correct, that power is likely from a demon tribe slightly south from their territory. It sounds familiar, but there are tons of reused abilities in PIDW. Nothing odd here! Eventually his son starts taking on jobs that Shen Yuan never asked him to do, in an effort to prove himself to Shen Yuan and also help him out. So at some point he takes it upon himself to go to take something from some cultivators.

It's not until his son comes back with a sniveling Shang Qinghua in tow that Shen Yuan realizes he must be very, VERY off the mark on who his character is.

Linguang-Jun was not, in fact, supposed to raise the future Mobei-Jun to be a dutiful son (nephew) who lacked abandonment issues and had a habit of leaving offerings on his uncle's desk like a cat, but since he neither knew who Linguang-Jun was nor the fact that Mobei-Jun was supposed to get dropped in the human world to be hunted for sport as a child, this was exactly the kind of Mobei-Jun that he had. Shang Qinghua, aka the hack author of this goddamn novel, has the audacity to complain to Shen Yuan about how he raised Mobei-Jun too well. When Shang Qinghua groveled and wailed and begged for mercy, Mobei-Jun brought him to his uncle! Because he "had the final say" in whether or not Shang Qinghua could swear fealty to him! What the fuck!

Mobei-Jun accepts Shang Qinghua's fealty at his uncle's behest, and Shen Yuan uses this attachment as a way to keep track of the timeline, including when Su Xiyan will fall pregnant with Tianlang-Jun's baby. In the meantime, Shen Yuan uses his own friendship with Tianlang-Jun as a way to mark his progress as well. He's met her a few times since Tianlang-Jun keeps dropping Zhuzhi-Lang off so they can run off on their little dates, but it's too odd to ask either of them if he's gotten her pregnant yet, so Shen Yuan tries instead to drop hints to nudge Tianlang-Jun in the right direction.

Talking about the joys of fatherhood, how adorable babies are, how unfortunate it is that some species, like humans, have very short windows of their lives in which they can have kids, and can even miscarry... Tianlang-Jun seems to get it- or maybe he's giving the man too much credit, because suddenly Tianlang-Jun is offering Zhuzhi-Lang as a surrogate with the insistence that "as a half-snake, he's guaranteed to give you litters! Even with a few dud eggs, he'll definitely give you a nice batch!" And "the gestational periods are short too, so you can always try again! As a heavenly demon, he's also very hardy! Your kids will be healthy for sure!" Shen Yuan has to firmly and kindly decline, though that seems to oddly disappoint Zhuzhi-Lang, who has been standing off to the side the entire time. Good sir, stand up for yourself! You don't need to do everything your uncle says! Filial piety only goes so far!

Anyway it's not long after that Su Xiyan actually gets pregnant. He expects canon to unfold from there, based on Shang Qinghua's unused old notes- Tianlang-Jun getting put under the mountain, Su Xiyan getting captured and dying after giving birth, Zhuzhi-Lang getting stuck in snake form and trying to free his uncle- all very sad and very necessary for Binghe's rise to power. Except for some reason Su Xiyan is now at Linguang-Jun's doorstep?! With Mobei-Jun?! Son, why do you look so proud of yourself?!

Apparently Mobei-Jun, who continued to pick fights with human cultivators, habitually came across Su Xiyan and her martial siblings. Su Xiyan, recognizing him, always let him off lightly out of consideration for Linguang-Jun. She warned him that as long as none of his attacks were fatal, she would let him go: but that if he killed any of her martial siblings, he would either die at her hands or suffer in the Huan Hua water prison. In return, Mobei-Jun, who was basically a semi-regular figure at the sect now, noticed immediately that she had gone missing when he showed up at the sect one day and it was another older cultivator that crossed blades with him, instead of her. Fast forward, and he's busting her out of captivity, and dragging her to Shen Yuan after she tells him that Tianlang-Jun is in danger. Shen Yuan is gobsmacked. The Old Palace Master hasn't even called on the other sects yet! Su Xiyan was in captivity for less than a day! What the hell, Mobei-Jun?!

But he cannot scold his dear nephew, who is looking at him so expectantly for praise. Instead, he calls on Tianlang-Jun and Zhuzhi-Lang to let them know about Su Xiyan's whereabouts, and then calls on Airplane. This damn hack author deserves the burden of this dilemma too!

Really, it's too late to turn back now, so after shaking Airplane's shoulders aggressively enough, the man finally agrees to pull some strings at his sect. The Old Palace Master's request for aid is turned down, Tianlang-Jun and Su Xiyan are alive, and it's not long before the Old Palace Master unfortunately qi deviates while attempting to cultivate in seclusion. Su Xiyan gives birth safely to a baby boy, and the human and demonic realms are in an uproar when Tianlang-Jun announces their marriage, but there's really very little they can do about it.

On the bright side, the two realms never merge. Unfortunately, Tianlang-Jun and Su Xiyan getting together seemed to have started a bit of a trend, and now Mobei-Jun was asking Linguang-Jun for permission to court Shang Qinghua??? And other cultivators that he met at the wedding have been extending offers and invitations to Linguang-Jun???

Shen Yuan would like to retreat back to the northern mountains and never come back.

[heavenbarnes]

simon riley x reader

18+

contains: no reader pronouns, survivalist themes (it’s not described what happened, but something has happened), mentions of hunger and eating, mentions of hunting animals, the smallest hint at cannibalism, poor hygiene, body odour, male masturbation, hints at dacryphilia, impressions of somnophilia, handjob, face riding (there is no description of reader’s genitalia), illusions to free use, mentions of penetrative unprotected sex, brief mention of urination, non-descriptive mentions of murder.

on the first day, there was nobody.

not a soul. not for miles, at least. still and dead and dead and dead quiet. if there was a pin around to drop? you’d have heard it.

but it was just you. it was hard to tell if that was reassuring or not.

the more there is nobody, the more there is a chance for somebody. an unexpected somebody.

the last person on earth hears a knock at the door- something like that.

but there is no knock, at least, not for now.

in the first week, there are still no signs of life.

you’re sure, from the direction of the sun, that you’re heading east.

you really hope you’re heading east.

what you’re hoping to find? anyone’s guess.

anyone if there was anyone out there.

you set up camp against the cold rubble of stone. it’s always cold now. it’s like, when the people went away, the sun followed.

you know the sun is out there, you’re following it- you can physically see it. you just can’t feel it.

maybe that’s a secret of the universe you were never meant to discover. many bodies means heat, maybe people were the key after all.

maybe it was always about company.

you remember company.

a distant memory. how long has it been since you’ve heard another voice? fuck-

how long has it been since you last spoke?

“hello.”

how strange is that? you know nobody is out there, yet the first thing you say just to test your voice- it’s a greeting.

a hoarse greeting, at that. rubs your throat the wrong way and it squeaks on its way out, sound broken by underused vocal chords.

nice to know you still have a voice, even if nobody is around to hear it. suppose the tree does make a sound when it falls.

your greeting to a vast and empty loneliness, you worry that you might’ve welcomed it in. you resign yourself to delusion when you hear it.

in the first month, the emptiness talks back.

“where’d you come from?”

the emptiness has a name, simon.

for a man all dressed in black with only a smattering of white, he enters your life in full screaming colour.

ironic for a man of so few words.

you both spend the first day together parallel to one another. silence, sat either side of the fire you’d been stoking since you’d arrived in this spot.

there’d been minimal exchange of words, no more than needed.

your names. where you came from. how you’d ended up here. what you had on you.

and, no- you hadn’t seen anyone else.

simon looks angry, as much as you can tell from his eyes. his balaclava looks like it stinks but it looks warm so it makes sense.

he looks tough, but he looks strong. well fed.

you wonder how he’s managed to remain the size that he has with the dwindling supplies he’d gotten his hands on. a paranoid part of you wonders if he’s hiding more from you.

it’s the rumbling of your stomach. when it gets quiet, it starts speaking to you- tells you to do things you normally wouldn’t.

you’d managed to get out of dodge with the bare essentials, with the time that has passed, you’re running on empty.

the hunger allows you to understand the previously unanswered. that, perhaps, some of the cruelest people of our times were just hungry.

once you snap out of it, you realise that what he produced from his rucksack was really just that. few tins, some muesli bars, some non-descript silver pouches.

you study the pouches like you’ve discovered fire, turning them round in your hands like squeezing the edges will tell you what you’re holding.

“it’s freeze dried cottage pie.”

oh, he’s military.

simon proves himself very useful.

strings you both a bivouac. keeps the fire going even when it rains. makes the food stretch for miles.

your stomach aches in a way that becomes less noticeable. it aches of an ungrateful privilege to have once been fed so well.

at night, you dream of standing in the refrigerator light with a handful of whatever you wanted. in your dreams, you eat with your eyes shut and don’t even care to see what it is.

when you wake, simon pushes a crushed snack bar into your hand and you look at it with both eyes. you eat it very slowly.

simon tells you that you need to move camp.

he doesn’t tell you why but he says it with such conviction that you don’t care to ask.

he slings your bag on his shoulder without asking. probably because it means nothing to him, broad shoulders carrying everything else you have to your names.

he makes you walk ahead of him. in the silence, you can only hear the crunch of gravel underfoot combined with the tide of his breathing.

he breathes like high tide, big chest with crashing waves. he doesn’t huff like he’s unfit, he just breathes loudly. he’s a quiet man but his presence is loud.

that and his breath fucking stinks.

you’re no sunday morning, either. water is reserved for drinking, the minute you can find camp near a running water source? that’s when you can wash.

until then, you’re both ripe and unpleasant to be around.

but maybe it’s all about company.

simon finds you both a flat piece of sod, tucked under an overhang. he fashions the shelter so that the rain will run straight off it.

he’s very useful.

makes you follow him on a short walk north-east of where you’d left your things. you can hear it before you see it.

running water.

he collects it in your bottles as you splash it across your face. wiping your face with your sleeve, it leaves a dirty streak across the fabric.

but there are no mirrors anymore.

and, well, simon doesn’t mind.

dinner is a quarter each of freeze-dried-something. like with most things, you both eat in silence.

until-

“you homesick?”

“uh, yeah.”

“right, ‘m sorry.”

“oh, thanks. me too, i guess.”

“nah, i’m used to this.”

what’s the opposite of doesn’t speak unless spoken to? speaks only when speaking to?

you study his side profile as he eats, really the only time you see him without the balaclava.

his nose is visibly broken but not in a way that it hurts. he’s got scruff but he has to be dry shaving, or maybe it just doesn’t grow. he’s got a few scars, that could be why.

you thought he wore the balaclava for warmth, you’ve started to figure it’s just a him thing.

as you settle in for sleep, you don’t know what possesses you to be the first to speak- to even ask him a question.

“do you think things will ever go back to how they were?”

“probably not.”

that’ll learn you.

at the first sign of sunrise, you head down to the water. you’d had a bar soap at the bottom of your bag since the first day. for a moment there, it had felt like a stupid possession, that was until you first ran it over your skin.

river water and bar soap felt like salvation.

the pristine white of the soap turned a murky grey at the first swipe. caked on dirt falling away with every drop of water.

washing every crease of your skin, the soles of your feet, the back of your neck. it was part of feeling human again.

it felt like an act of defiance.

they’d tried to remove all trace of humankind but here you were. soapy and smelly and alive.

there was a smell under your arms that’d outlast religion but the more you worked over it with the soap, the more it got lost to the aloe vera.

as you sat waist deep, your ears pricked to the sounds of of parted water. like breaking waves.

high tide.

you turned in time to see simon striding toward you, naked as the day he was born with one outstretched palm.

“i’ll get your back.”

fresh clothes, your others drying on a line beside the fire. your shirt, simon’s socks, your undies, simon’s balaclava.

exisiting in harmony.

the sound of crackling fire helped to hide the fact there were no birds, no bugs, nothing. it was easier to ignore when you were on your own.

fear heightened by your own solitude, your mind raced so fast it was hard to get a thought in edgewise.

simon quieted that down. his mere presence worked wonders for your anxiety. you’d like to see anything try get past him.

but when it got quiet, it allowed you a moment alone with your thoughts. if what he said the night before was right-

you couldn’t catch your first sob in time to muffle it.

“oh, what the hell? y’not crying are you?”

a weak apology only seemed to annoy him more, sitting up on his bedroll to look at you through the light of the fire.

you probably looked quite poetic, illuminated in orange with tears on your face and the soft flutter of foliage around you.

“jus’ stop crying- what’s got you in a fuss?”

you looked at him with a hint of exasperation.

“oh, you know, just the end of the world.”

he let out a big sigh, a large hand dragging down the length of his face.

“you’ll be fine- won’t let anything happen to you.”

you weren’t sure if you believed him but you weren’t sure if there was anything else to believe in?

he took one last look at you, bottom lip still stuck out in a pout and the saddest eyes he’s ever seen.

he rolled his eyes one last time before hunkering down.

“go the fuck to sleep.”

you had no way of knowing what time it was. pitch black and the fire reduced to embers.

it was cold, middle of the night cold. you could feel your teeth begin to chatter before you brought your shoulders to your chin.

you could hear simon beside you, breathing stunted and shallow. his sleeping bag rustled, your eyes adjusted just enough to see movement.

“are you wanking?”

“go the fuck to sleep.”

the morning has a strange way of changing everything.

every shadow that was sure to harbour something nefarious was really just a tree.

every sinister sound whispered beside your ear was really just the wind.

and sleep can really make you delirious. where you know you’re awake but you’re still so tired that even forming a thought is hard.

so you wake up with nothing on your mind.

you used to know what day it was, now you don’t even know what time it is. you’re unsure of how long it’s been like this or how long you’ve known simon.

all you know is, at breakfast, he starts talking about hunting. he’s going to have to start catching stuff if you’re both going to eat.

“what do you want me to do?”

he looks at you like you piss him off. you’re not entirely convinced you don’t.

“whaddya’ mean?”

you’ve taken to having crushed up muesli bars in water for breakfast, so you finish your spoonful of that before you speak up.

“do you want me to help or anything?”

simon looks you up and down before letting out a big sigh.

“you stay here and you don’t move, alright?”

it’s not really a question, as much as an order. you wonder again if you’ve pissed him off but then he’s taking your bowl off you to wash it with his.

maybe it’s about company.

he’s got a knife strapped to his thigh and a whittled stick on his back when he’s ready to set off.

you aren’t really sure what you’re meant to do while he’s gone, so you mention washing down at the river.

“don’t- don’t do that til’ i’m back.”

right.

you don’t argue, just shrug your shoulders and watch him as he walks off into who knows what direction.

he’s only gone for a matter of moments before the lonesome sets in.

under any other circumstances would you have taken in a stranger so easily? would you have missed him so quickly?

you hear simon’s boots before you see him, trudging back up the rise towards your camp. he finds you cross-legged on your bedroll, weaving.

weaving what? fuck knows.

but you feel busy.

he easily overshadows your efforts, a young buck slung over his shoulders with its throat open.

poor thing, simon moves so quickly and so quietly. it probably never saw him coming.

he stops before you, shifting his weight and slinging the animal further up his back.

“what’ve you got there?”

you hold up your grass strands, you’d managed to make quite a bit of progress on your creation in his absence.

“uh, a mat- maybe?”

simon nods, he turns his head like something in the distance catches his interest. he looks at you again before he leaves.

“good job.”

your heart hammers in your chest just once before you stand to follow him. you’ve always struggled to keep up with his pace but, thankfully, he doesn’t go far.

he’s found some clearing to lay the kill, it’s under a tree with a large branch. he stands to unfurl the rope he’s had around the top of his arm.

he slings it over the tree before returning to the animal. he knows you’re over his shoulder, he always knows where you are.

“this is going to be grim, go finish your mat.”

and you do.

without a word, you take back down the path you’d just come from and you settle back under the shade.

you hum to yourself as you weave grass. its a song you think you might’ve known once. when was the last time you’d heard song?

simon returns with a plastic bag filled with meat. the blood drips down his arms and some has flecked across his forehead.

he doesn’t look like someone you’d want to run into deep in the middle of nowhere.

“get y’soap.”

the running river becomes paradise, that’s absolutely certain. they’ve taken everything from you but they haven’t taken this.

they’ve left you this and they’ve left you simon.

he who washes quickly to spend the rest of his time laying on warm stone. it looks uneven and uncomfortable but you don’t think he minds.

you figure he’s slept under gunfire. he could survive anywhere.

so far, he’s made that look easy.

he lays outstretched and it makes him appear taller than usual. he puts an arm behind his head, tilts it towards you so he can keep watch.

you know he stares, you don’t mind.

you think you like it.

the hand that isn’t behind his head rests on his stomach, amongst scars and a tattoo that says “in case of apocalypse create woman from this rib.”

his other tattoos flex as he scratches his stomach. there’s a skull that winks at you, flames that dance around his wrist.

he’s so rough around the edges.

you’d finished washing long ago but you allow yourself to splash about like you’re a child again. it’s almost true, you’ve certainly got no responsibilities and there’s an adult watching you.

but everything is different now.

tipping back until the crown of your head is submerged, the water rushes past your ears as your fingers stroke the stones below you.

they’re so smooth around the edges.

as you angle yourself towards simon, he shifts a hand to adjust himself. a simple gesture that fires the synapses in your brain.

you sit up in an instant.

“were you wanking last night?”

simon barely reacts. he opens the eye that was previously shut and he gives you a good look before he cuts you loose.

“y’look nice when you’re all upset.”

the venison dinner is nice. the meats tough but it’s cooked through and it leaves you feeling full.

bedtime might be your favourite time.

it’s different to wash time, it feels closest to home.

like you could be at home. with simon beside you.

it’s colder tonight, you’re smart enough to know that winter is on its way. the leaves were brown right before everything changed.

this was to be expected. it’ll only get colder from here.

soon, wash time becomes near impossible.

there are no warm stones and no wading. it’s a bowl of water and a torn rag, you start to dread the water touching your skin.

how quickly it can change.

simon takes to simmering your water over the fire, he prepares it for you one day without you even having to ask.

“clean yourself by the fire, too cold out there.”

he watches the colours dance on your skin as you wash yourself, your shadow broad on the overhang behind you.

you wonder if, at this point, you’d do anything he tells you to?

who else is there to listen to? what else is there to do?

it’s a particularly cold night and simon’s hardly sleeping. he’s awake every hour on the hour to stoke the fire, you could set your watch by him.

not that you’d know, you’re blissfully unaware in slumber- snoring gently and only shivering between breaths.

breaths that he can see, it’s that cold.

you hardly wake when you feel him behind you, his sleeping bag slipping against yours as a strong arm pulls you back to him.

he’s firm but he’s warm and you feel it consume you in an instant.

by morning, he’s got both your sleeping bags in his lap. he’s unzipped the both of them and he’s feeding the teeth of your bag through the zipper of his.

he sees you watching him.

there was probably a time where he would’ve explained himself to you.

that time was lost to, well, time.

you understood well enough, really, you welcomed it. you look forward to sleeping in the curve of his front, the man shaped furnace protecting you from the elements.

he looked up from the bags to see you weave another few strands across your mat. when he catches your eye, you smile ear to ear.

it isn’t lost on you that there is no evolutionary purpose to simon looking after you.

that from the moment he stumbled across you, it probably would’ve suited him better to kill you. he would’ve had your supplies, one less creature to worry about, meat.

but he didn’t.

he stayed at your camp before taking you with him and now he washed your back and kept you warm when you slept.

there was no benefit to his survival having you around.

but maybe it was all about company.

you both sleep better in your conjoined sleeping bags. he doesn’t need to stoke the fire and you’re warm all night long.

he’s very warm.

cold disposition but he radiates a heat like nothing you’ve ever felt. you feel most comfortable under his left arm.

your head lays on his chest and you raise your leg up over his, almost hanging off him.

he sleeps with his hand splayed over your hip and when he’s in deep sleep, he grips it and releases it almost in a rhythm.

the smells don’t concern you any longer. you’ve come to associate his musk with safety. you burrow your nose into his skin to keep your face warm and the tang of his sweat is almost sweet to you.

you miss it in the day time.

sometimes, when he’s cooking or whittling, you’ll appear behind him. he’s never startled by you, he always knows where you are.

you’ll rest your chin on his shoulder and he’ll teach you about what he’s doing, without prompting.

when your nose nudges behind his ear it makes him shiver, you must feel it as you’re close enough to be a second skin.

but you never mention it.

you’re both dozing off when you do notice it.

he’s hard, again.

“d’you mind?”

“no, go ahead”

you say it with a yawn and it makes it twitch. he licks his palm before he puts it down his underwear, stroking himself almost routinely.

he’s measured, like he is with everything. it’s obligatory more than pleasure.

you usually sleep through it, only occasionally rousing to spit in his hand or give him the okay to pull your top down.

he just needs something to work with.

his chest is under your ear, you can hear his trapped breaths as he twists his wrist around himself. he’s getting nowhere fast.

“simon?”

“yeah? say it again like that, please?”

“no, i meant- do you want a hand?”

literally.

you could whisper in his ear or let him look under your clothes all he liked- or he could get it at the source.

it was a kindness, really. he sounded tired, least you could do with all he does for you.

simon concedes quickly, replacing his hand with yours and already starting you off how he likes.

you’ve felt it enough to know, but you appreciate his direction. it’s come to be a staple of your relationship.

relationship? means of survival? existence.

simon cums the moment you touch his balls, the sound he makes is wretched and pathetic and you feel a tension in your stomach you haven’t felt in a long time.

it’s hot and it hits your core and there is a moment where you aren’t sure what it means.

it’s been so long since you’ve felt anything that wasn’t necessary to your survival.

something tells you to crawl down inside your sleeping bags and lick the spend off simon’s stomach, his muscle clenches under your tongue as you do.

he tastes acrid- he tastes like he smells.

but you don’t regret it.

simon is very useful.

wakes you, feeds you, bathes you, warms you.

you have no doubt in your mind that you’d have died if he hadn’t found you.

when it’s quiet, in your mind, you tally up the things you’re grateful for in case you’re only left with them tomorrow.

simon.

shelter.

simon.

food.

simon.

water.

simon.

what’s left?

it’s in the still of a cold night, you’d tugged him off and licked your hand clean when you finally mustered your courage.

“can you touch me?”

you weren’t sure where you want to be touched or why. but you knew you wanted it.

you’d felt it coming on strong when you’d watched him whittling arrows to fill the quiver you’d weaved him.

he’d pressed the point till blood gave way on the tip of his finger, the one he’d wrapped his lips around.

you wanted to know what it felt like. to be under the tip of his finger.

but he had other ideas.

he wanted to show you what it was like to be on the tip of his tongue.

“simon, i’m filthy.”

“y’not, i wash between these legs every day- think i haven’t wanted to give you a taste?”

simon gets all the way out of bed to get his polar fleece, slipping it over your shoulders and pulling his woollen socks over your feet.

he gets back into the sleeping bag before he’s manhandling you up his chest, doesn’t stop till you’re hovering over his broken nose.

he sees the breath that escapes when you speak his name, quietly and just to him. he unfurls his balaclava from his fist, wrestling it over your head until all you can smell, and see, is him.

simon has you cum three times on his face until there are tears on your cheeks, only then will he relent.

almost like he gets what he wants.

his big hands had held your hips firmly where he wanted them, one had snuck up under his fleece but the other had slipped down to the split of your ass.

his stubble left you sore and his mouth had left you worn out. you didn’t know it was possible to feel like that again.

“if you’ve ever felt like that before, i don’t want to know about it.”

you nodded at his words, he always struck you as the jealous type even before he laid a hand on you.

the possessive type, what’s his is his and what’s yours is also his.

you fall asleep in the socks, everything else back off so he can feel you. likes to sleep with a hand up your top and your breath on his skin.

likes to know you’re still there. don’t go where he can’t follow.

when you remove all of society, so does go all of its rules.

simon splits you open in his lap as you watch the sunrise.

he puts your back to his chest as he sits on the stump he’d turned into a stool. he’d slipped your trousers down enough to slip inside and it never occurred once to you that you’d be seen.

you hadn’t seen another person in who knows how long. why would they show up now?

you let him take you wherever he likes. it’s not reserved for bedtime.

when you’re foraging for food, he bends you over against a tree.

when it gets warm enough to go back to the lake, he tastes the soap off your skin.

when he returns from a hunt, you put him in your mouth while he tells you he missed you.

it becomes ritualistic. if there are no rules as to when and where, it becomes all of the time.

and simon needs you all of the time.

joined at the hip, he doesn’t like you out of his sight. he leaves you behind when he hunts but that is purely it.

when he goes for a piss, he often makes you hold it. just to know that he can.

how quickly you’ve let him, how quickly you’ve become dependent on him. did you always want someone to come find you?

where would you be on your own?

maybe it’s all about company.

simon makes you walk ahead on your way back from foraging. he tells you that this is the way he came from his last hunt.

you feel closer to him, being out here where he never lets you go. you feel yourself becoming him, losing the place where you end and he begins.

through the long grass, the toe of your boot knocks against something that makes you stop.

you follow it through the grass until you come to see the shape of it, the arms and legs flattening the foliage.

their rucksack is emptied, anything they might’ve had already taken. already back at your camp.

you can hear simon approaching as you look into the person’s dull eyes.

poor thing, simon moves so quickly and so quietly. it probably never saw him coming.

[witchbitchlovesdilfs]

Pain Relief Pt. 5

Jack Abbot x chronically ill f!reader

series masterlist, next

synopsis: reader finally meets robby and dana

warnings: fluff, alcohol, prosthetic leg, language, reader has pots

words: 1.22k

a/n: in love with him. jack comfort in next chapter!

“Thanks again for coming,” he says, face pressed into your hair as he holds you close, hands travelling the expanse of your body and sliding down to keep your hips in place.

“Of course,” you say cheerfully, savoring the way Jack holds you. “I’m just glad that I finally get to meet your friends! A girl can only hear so much about Robby and Dana before going mad with the need to befriend them!”

Jack pulls away, smiling down at you. “The three of you are going to be insufferable together.”

You grin and pull away to check your hair and makeup. “They didn’t have work earlier, did they? I don’t want to interrupt their time off when they could be getting sleep.”

Jack softens at the caring words. “They took today off specifically so they could meet you.”

You flush at this. “Wow, now I feel special.”

He watches you devotedly and says, silently, “You are.”

The bar is moderately busy when you enter, at Jack’s side in cute yet comfy clothes. You feel like you’re meeting the parents. 

Jack waves nonchalantly at someone in one of the booths near the back, and you follow him to stand before a man and a woman - both smiling like they know a secret. 

Robby clasps Jack’s hand in greeting and introduces himself to you with a sincere smile. Dana practically suffocates you in a hug, whispering how grateful she is that Abbot’s been happier lately. You flush and slide into the booth next to Jack.

“So,” Robby drawls out, fiddling with a napkin. “Jack told us you’re an artist.”

You glance at Jack with wide eyes. He’s calm, leaning against the seat with his muscular arms crossed. “I try,” you say sheepishly.

But Jack doesn’t let you undermine yourself. “She’s great,” he says, setting a comforting arm on the top of the booth behind you, still nonchalant. “I’ll have to show you the painting she did for me.”

Robby and Dana share a look.

“He let you paint him?!” Dana exclaims with a teasing smirk, stirring her glass. “He must really be in love.”

You blush and look down at the table, spotting a hint of red floating up Abbot’s cheeks out of the corner of your eye. 

“I’m going to get a drink,” he decides, tapping the table and swiftly escaping the scene. 

You bite your lip, staring at his back as he orders at the bar. 

“How did the two of you meet?” Robby asks, and your head flies back in their direction. “Jack hasn’t really been giving us specifics.”

You fiddle with your hands. “I came into the ER, actually. One of the student doctors wasn’t being the nicest, and Jack told him off.”

Dana scoffs. “Sounds like him.”

Robby scratches his beard in thought. “What was the doctor’s name?”

“Howards,” you say softly, scared that you’re going to get Jack in trouble.

Robby’s eyes lit up in amusement. “Dr. Howards transferred a few weeks ago.”

“A certain Attending wrote him up for disorderly conduct,” Dana adds, hiding her grin behind her hand.

“What are you two gossiping about?” Jack’s back, nursing two drinks. He places a Pina Colada in front of you, telling you “It’s virgin”, and your eyes widen. How did he know? Well, you did mention that one time that whenever you went to a bar you tried to find a nonalcoholic drink instead…But he couldn’t remember that…Or could he?

“A certain student doctor you got fired,” Robby fills Jack in as he slides in next to you. 

Jack freezes. “I didn’t fire him,” he says slowly, deeply.

Dana laughs. “We didn’t realize why you had such a vendetta against him until Y/n filled it in for us.”

Jack looks at you, and your face turns crimson as you turn away, wrapping a hand around the Pina Colada and taking a sip to cool your heart rate. 

Jack shakes off the embarrassment. “Yeah, well, the guy was an asshole. Sooner or later, somebody else would’ve made a complaint.”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, and you notice that he’s watching you. Waiting for you to make eye contact. Instead, you place your hand on his thigh and squeeze. Thank you, your gesture says. 

Jack nods and takes a gulp of his drink.

Waving bye to Robby and Dana, you sneak your hand into Abbot’s. He startles, looks at you, and lets you wrap your fingers around his.

“I’m tired,” you hide your yawn behind your other hand.

“Come home with me?”

Your head turns so sharly you’re sure you’ll get whiplash.

Jack sees the confused and flustered expression on your face and immediately assures you, “Just to sleep. I want a pretty face there when I wake up tomorrow.”

You’re so red you think you might explode. Looking down, you try to conceal the massive grin on your face. “Only if you let me sleep in your clothes.”

He sets a hand under your chin and lifts your face so you meet his loving, gentle gaze. He can’t conceal his smile either. “I’ve got a shirt and boxers with your name on them.”

When you reach Jack’s apartment - which is insanely close to the hospital, you realize - he tells you that it’s not much. You wave him off.

Jack pushes the door open and rushes over to silence a loud police scanner sitting on a nearby table. You hardly stifle your laugh as a hand flies to your mouth. “You’re really dedicated, huh?”

He blushes and practically pummels the scanner until it’s off. 

You turn to look around, and that’s when you notice it: the painting on the wall beside his couch. The painting you made. You step closer slowly as your heart flips. 

“Told you it would brighten things up,” Jack says. He’s behind you now, and as he wraps his arms around you, you think that there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. 

Jack shows you to the bathroom and hands you clothes to change into. You thank him and shut the door, scrubbing off your makeup and slipping into the gray tee and black boxers. The shirt is big on you, the collar stretched out a bit, and there’s something so domestic, so intimate about it that you nearly cry.

When you step into the hall, Jack’s sitting on the bed. His prosthetic leg is propped against the nightstand, and he’s slipped out of his jeans. You redden at the sight, eyeing up the way his curls bounce. 

Jack’s heart stills when he sees you in his apartment, in his clothes. “You look great,” he says as you timidly sit on the bed next to him. 

You slip under the blankets. “Thanks.”

Jack follows suit and lets himself get comfortable. Letting himself take one more lingering look at you, he reaches over and turns off the light. 

Everything is quiet except fainting honking from outside and the sound of your breathing. You let your head hit the pillow and turn to face Jack. In the dark, you can just make out that he is facing you too. 

His arms outstretch. You slip into them quickly, like you’ve never done anything else, tucking your head under his chin and breathing him in.

“Good night,” he breathes.

You plant a delicate kiss on his throat. “Night.”

Taglist:

@miraclesabound @qardasngan @mads198-9 emma8895eb @celiacallsitcausal @interestellarprincess @kmc1989 @wisps-writes-fic @queerroyalty58 @kate654

[elodieunderglass]

This is a gap in recorded/presented/easy-to-imagine history in which you can imagine the shape of a role of the “Irish” Hobelar as a fighting unit.

Hobelars were mounted on small gaited native pony-horses called hobbies; carrying no gear and wearing no armour and riding practically bareback, a feat made possible by the fast smooth pace of the hobby (whose gait would presumably resemble the Icelandic pony’s tölt or the Mongolian war pony’s joroo.) the Irish Hobby is now extinct, but the name is where we get the word “hobby” from - an activity done for pleasure. This sounds made-up, doesn’t it? You can read a long post by myself and contributors here, which includes this poem from someone describing their fighting style and how annoying it was:

And one amang, an lyrysch man, Uppone his hoby swyftly ran; Hyt was a sportfulle sygthe, How hys darttes he did schak ; And when him lyst to leve or tak, They had fulle gret dispite.

There are a few reasons why you haven’t heard of hobelars (god forbid people have hobbies). It is important to the imperial construction of the myths of the British Isles (and the French) that Celtic people be negligible and subjugated in any narrative of medieval warfare. They did not correspond to a social class outside of warfare: you can spin so MANY sexy aristocracy-reinforcing tales of chivalry around knights that we’re still doing so today. Sexy tormented superhero with his ARMOUR and his SWORD and his big HORSE - let’s roleplay this 5 million times, and for political comfort, rather than trampling the peasants he now rules, we shall enshrine and repeat the safe metaphorical image of the “dragon” for him to fight as well…

Guy Who Just Caught A Wild Hobby From A Bog And Doesn’t Wear Armour (and runs around bareback, throwing stuff and being incredibly fast and annoying, and vanishing when you tried to kill them back) is just… less sexy. They literally weren’t superheroes. There is discomfort as well - if we kept their imagery, we couldn’t give them fictions to fight; hobelars were not romantic, they had no fixed honour; they were always a scrambling skirmishing fighting unit for killing people. As an academic puts it:

The hobelar is very much the poor relation in the study of the English armies of the fourteenth century, eclipsed by both the man-at-arms and the archer. Our understanding of his origins and role has been wholly based on only two major studies of this troop type: J. E. Morris’ ‘Mounted Infantry Warfare’ in 1914 and J. Lydon's ‘The Hobelar: An Irish Contribution to Medieval Warfare’ in 1954. The lack of interest might be considered surprising, given that Morris saw him as the precursor to the mounted longbowman, while Lydon called him ‘the most effective fighting man of the age’, referring to the hobelar as ‘an entirely different type of mounted soldier’. Yet other historians have been happy to accept the conclusions of Morris and Lydon, considering the hobelar only in passing. Perhaps the reason that so little work has been done on him is that he is always considered in comparison to the man-at-arms – the elite warrior, in his shining harness, doyen of chivalry and a core element of the medieval political and social elite – and the longbowman – the almost super-heroic, Hundred Years’ War-winning, nationalistic symbol of medieval English, and Welsh, martial prowess. By contrast, there is little if any mention of the hobelar in the battle narratives of the middle ages; they have no great role to play in the successes of the English over the French. They do not form a political and social class within medieval society and there is no way, therefore, to discuss their impact outside of the military sphere. It is also almost certain that their Irish origins have counted against them too. Medieval Ireland has been considered militarily backwards by most historians of warfare, who seem to have inherited something of the dismissive tone of their English sources…

Right. 

You’ve read the posts above. You have dutifully pictured the mental image of being a pikeman, Just Some Guy with a big pointy stick, while thousands of pounds of steel-armoured horseflesh ridden by braying Tories comes at you. You have understood that this is inherently alarming, even if you understand the military theories involved, and are prepared to make horse-kebabs.

Now picture being that pikeman when hobelars turn up. First off, the hobbies are WEIRD. They’re fast and tiny, and they move Wrong:

Rather than lining up to be kebabs, as you expect, they feint - dance up to you like weirdos and turn away. They show off how - unencumbered and in good control of their hobbies - they can pretend to do the scary charge thing, breaking your will, but not get kebabed. They are not wearing armour; they’re not using saddles or stirrups, but some of them appear to be archers (?!) sometimes the hobelars get off and wind you up a bit and then jump back on their stupid hobbies. Psychologically they seem more like YOU, but then there’s the horses. They throw spears, or arrow-spears called “darts.” They laugh at you. They have amazing control of their hobbies, who turn away from pikeheads on a dime. The sight of hobbies skirmishing was described (above) as “a sportful sight” - presumably if they weren’t doing it at you, when it would be SO annoying.

There is zero expectation that Celtic mounted skirmishers will break a wall of pikemen. The hobelars have been sent to annoy you. What if this is part of their function, a natural activity in their wheelhouse, and they have perfected it. What if it’s working. What if, by the time the big shiny horses with their big shiny nobles come, you’re already a bit shaken…

Not saying this scene ever happened in history, but you can see from this a bit of how these histories are constructed: here is a unit that was effective and influential in its time and gave its name to “hobbies.” Here are the places where it would seem logical to use them. We have lost much of what would have been known about how they fought at all. The primary source for the quote of the “iyrysch man upon his hoby” is preserved in one single corrupted document in a corner of the internet that took me a morning to find. We will never forget knights, but with a strategically placed EMP, we would probably lose our ability to remember and connect over hobelars (why would anyone care.)

but care when you find yourself thinking that the entire system is pikeman vs knight, one vs the other, an armchair system that plays out like an RPG, rock-paper-scissors: care because so much of history is a spectrum of forgotten people.

[popcornforone]

Morning Brew

A Frankie “Catfish” Morales Fan Fic

Happy Frankie Friday

Back when I was doing the seasons of life challenge I was talking to @berryispunk & she was like we need to write fics about Pedro Boys in Cafes getting Coffee, & I went yes drafted a couple then never thought about it again. But now the suns out & its warm & it’s iced coffee season (although I always say its iced coffee season) I was like what would Frankie do so why not post it for Frankie Friday.

Synopsis:- It’s the Morning after the night before & you decide to make Frankie a coffee.

Word Count:- 3000

Warnings:- DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18! PIV sex, teasing, oral mentioned, swearing, light chocking, addiction mentioned, established relationship, steamy & sexual tension. The Hat comes into play.

Thanks as always for the read peoples. I hope you enjoy .

“Frankie.”

His name spilled from your lips the night before, again, & again, & again. His hands were everywhere, his mouth relentless, your body caught in the current of every high he pulled from you.

Not once. Not twice. Three times, & you’re still not entirely convinced you’ve come back down. People had warned you, half laughing, when you started seeing Frankie Morales. That man’s dangerous with his tongue, they said. You rolled your eyes then, chalked it up to just gossip, legend &wishful thinking.

But now? Now you know. The gossip didn’t do him justice.

You’d barely had time to blink between the way he pulled you under & the way your body shattered, trembling as he coaxed every last tremor out of you. He never once held back. He gave and gave, whispering things “Cum for me, baby. Don’t leave me hangin’. Let me see those eyes widen.” His voice was low & wrecked, your legs slung over his shoulders, his mouth like sin and salvation all at once.

No one’s ever made you feel this full. This wrecked. This seen. & not once, not even as his body worked over yours, did he take off that damn cap.

That filthy, sweat soaked, battle worn cap you always tease him about. It clung to him the same way you did.

The sweat on his face, dripping from his brow, catching in the dip of his throat, God, he was sexy. Animal & man all at once. That low growl he made when he buried himself inside you? You’ll hear it in your bones for days.

And now he’s asleep beside you, curled around you like he’s guarding something precious.

Like you are. You turn onto your side & just watch him for a while. His breaths come in soft little huffs, & one gentle snore makes the curl on his forehead bounce. Your chest aches in that sweet, unfamiliar way, because it hits you, in that quiet morning light: not only are you his… He’s yours, too.

You carefully slide out of his arms, easing yourself from the cocoon of warmth, & immediately regret the chill even on this Florida morning. His scent still lingers on your skin, sea salt, after sex smoke, & soap, his soap, unapologetically Frankie.

The room is a mess. It was a mess before last night, & after the way you were practically torn out of your clothes? Total battlefield. You glance around. No sign of your underwear. Figures. The floor’s scattered with crumpled receipts, scuffed boots, gym bags, old clothes, cracked sunglasses, a couple of magazines you don’t want to examine too closely… & then finally: a pair of his boxers & that soft, worn grey T-shirt you love on him.

You tug them on. The fabric’s warm from the sun streaming through the blinds, & when you catch sight of yourself in the mirror, his shirt slipping off your shoulder, his cap that has been on the bedside table, now perched backwards on your head, you smirk. Dressed in Morales, head to toe.

Padding out of the bedroom, you head toward the kitchen. Coffee. You’ve both earned it.

Minutes later Frankie stirs before he opens his eyes. The bed is cooler now, your warmth gone from beside him, but the sheets still hold your scent, sweet, warm, unmistakably you. He presses his face into the pillow where your head had been & breathes deep, a low hum vibrating in his chest like a purr. Vanilla, maybe. Salt from the sea. & something deeper, you. He lets himself stay there for a moment, arm flung across the mattress, dog tags sticking to his chest. His semi growing.

The night comes back in pieces in his mind & he smiles. You in his lap, laughing against his mouth. The way your hips rolled, slow & knowing. That high pitched gasp you let out when he pressed just right, & how your nails dug into his shoulders like you were afraid he’d disappear. Yeah. He was wanting & needing you, he needed a release soon or it would be a waste..

And then his nose picks up the scent…Coffee.

He smells it before he hears anything else. Rich, dark, real. Not the instant crap he usually downs without thinking. This has intention. A little sweetness, maybe even cinnamon, & that smell of slightly burnt toast you always say is “character.” He cracks one eye open & squints at the empty space beside him. The mattress is missing that weight, the shift of your knee against his thigh, but on the nightstand, sitting like a little tribute, is your hair tie. He smiles at that, wondering how soon your hair will be tied up again & when he can next expect you worshiping him on your knees.

He swings his legs over the bed. His body aches in the best way. He finds a pair of grey sweatpants slung over the back of the chair, tugs them on with one hand raking through his hair. He doesn’t bother with a shirt. You’ve already seen every scar, earned or accidental. Hiding anything now would be pointless. The scent grows stronger as he walks down the hall. The clink of a spoon in a mug. A low hum, your voice, off key & half asleep. Maybe you’re singing to the coffee machine. He rounds the corner to the kitchen & stops just short of the doorway.

There you are. Back turned, hips swaying gently as you stir a cup with practiced focus. One of his mugs in hand, one waiting on the counter. His boxers hang low on your hips, the grey T-shirt barely brushing your thighs. & on your head, his hat. Backwards. He huffs a soft laugh through his nose, arms folding across his chest.

“Stealing my hat now, huh?”

You don’t turn. “Well, you weren’t using it. I figured someone had to carry the tradition of morning headwear.” you say sarcastically. There has been no morning where Frankie hasn’t instantly his cap back on.

He watches you for a moment longer before stepping into the room.

“You makin’ coffee or art over there?” he teases, coming up behind you, voice still rough with sleep. His arms slide around your waist, pulling you back against the warm wall of his chest. Your favourite spot.

“I made it right,” you say, smug. “Real beans. Real effort. You’re welcome.”

He buries his face in your neck, inhaling. “Smells better than what I usually drink.”

You smile. “That’s because this cup has love in it.”

He presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder. “Dont tell me you’ve mucked about with it too much I hope it doesn’t taste like vanilla & a little too much cream?”

You hand him the cup without turning around. “Just try it, Morales.”He does. One sip, & his eyes close. His jaw relaxes. A quiet sigh leaves him like someone took fifty pounds off his shoulders.

“…Okay. You win.”

You finally twist around in his arms & beam at him, then reach up to tilt his cap, your cap now maybe he will like it if it smells of you, back slightly. He meets your eyes, sleepy but softened, &something warm flickers between you.

“You gonna let me keep this hat?” you ask, teasing. Your eyes running over his glistening skin.

He pretends to think about it. “Depends.”

“On?”

He leans down, voice dropping just low enough to make your skin tighten.”On whether you’re gonna wear it only this… or only this.”

You grin, bold & unbothered. “Frankie Morales, are you trying to seduce me before coffee’s even finished?”

He raises his mug. “Baby, you made magic in this cup. I’m wide awake.”

You take a sip of your own coffee just to give your hands something to do. Because Frankie’s looking at you now, not with his usual sleepy smirk, but with the kind of slow, simmering hunger that makes your stomach drop & your breath catch in your throat. You know what he wants & you want it too.

His eyes travel down the length of you, his boxers barely clinging to your hips, his grey T-shirt hitched just high enough to tease your thighs, his hat backwards on your head like it belongs there.

He sets the mug down without a word. You feel it before it happens, the tension shifts. The air thickens. His hand curls lightly around your wrist, warm & calloused, & then he tugs. Gentle, insistent.

You move before your brain catches up.

He pushes you backward, slowly but purposefully, until your hips bump the edge of the counter. Then he steps between your legs, bracketing you in with his thighs, his palms finding your waist like they’ve known the shape of you forever. He tilts your chin up with two fingers. His voice is a low whisper, feathering over your skin like smoke.

“You really wanna wear my hat,” he murmurs, eyes flicking between yours and your mouth, “you gotta earn it, baby.”

Your breath hitches. Your coffee mug trembles in your grip, so you set it down fast, somewhere, anywhere, because you need your hands free for his touch. He leans in so close you can feel the heat of his mouth, but he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. Just brushes his nose against yours. Lets his lips hover just above yours.

“You smell like sleep & sex & coffee,” he mutters, voice rough.

“You like it?” You reply sultrily.

“No, I adore it, It’s driving me crazy.”

Your fingers curl into the waistband of his sweats, tugging him closer until your hips meet. He’s hard against you already, of course he is the man is big, you whimper just at the feel of it.

“Frankie…” you whisper.

“What do you want, baby?” he breathes against your mouth.

You almost say it. Almost beg for him like your body wants to. But his mouth finds your throat, his tongue dragging up the line of your neck before his teeth scrape gently at your jaw. You arch into him, one hand fisting in the back of his hair, the other gripping the fabric of his sweats like you’re hanging on for dear life.

“Tell me,” he says again, but this time his voice is lower, gravel mixed with command. Your pride flickers. But then his hand slips beneath the hem of the shirt, his shirt although he now will only see it as yours, palm skating up your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast. You gasp, grinding into him without thinking.

“Frankie baby, please.” Your voice cracks. “I need you. I need your mouth. I need, God…” your voice hushed”…just kiss me.”

His lips finally crash into yours, hot, deep, claiming. He kisses like he’s making up for lost time. Like he’s starving for it. His tongue slides past your lips & you moan into him, hips rolling up against his, & the counter behind you might as well disappear because the only thing anchoring you is him.

The kiss turns messy fast, your fingers tugging at his curls, his hand sliding beneath your thigh to hook your leg around his waist. You cling to him, breathless, overwhelmed. Eventually you break the kiss for air, your voice is wrecked.

“Frankie. Please. I’m begging you.”

His forehead rests against yours. His chest is heaving, his eyes dark and shining.

“Fuck,” he mutters, thumbing your lower lip, voice wrecked. “You’re better than any coffee, baby.” He presses another kiss, soft this time, reverent, to the corner of your mouth.

“You’re my new addiction.”

“You’re were always addiction,” he says again, quieter this time. That’s when he lifts you. It’s as easy as anything as with his hands gripping the backs of your thighs, arms steady & sure. You gasp, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist as he hoists you onto the counter, the cool surface making you shiver until his body fills the space again.

He steps between your knees & kisses you like he owns the air in your lungs. Like if he stops, he’ll forget how to breathe.

Your hands tangle in his hair, tugging the curls at the base of his neck, & he groans low in his throat, that erotic sound, the one that makes you throb between your thighs, the one that’s purely, filthily Frankie. You’re already soaked for him. Trembling with anticipation.

His hands are everywhere now, rough palms skimming up your thighs, pushing that soft grey T-shirt up & out of the way. One hand splays across your lower back, pulling you closer, while the other brushes the waistband of the boxers.

“Gonna take these off you real slow,” he murmurs, lips ghosting down your throat, “but only if you ask me nicely.”

You’re already breathless, dizzy. “Frankie…mmmm”

“Uh-uh. Ask me.”

You whimper, grabbing at his shoulders. “Take them off. Please. I need to feel you.”

His grin is wicked. “Good girl.”

He slides the boxers down your hips, dragging them down your legs until you’re bare beneath him, thighs spread wide, shameless, needy & naked. His eyes darken the second he sees you.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Look at you.”

He cups your sex, just the flat of his hand pressing in, &your hips jerk. His fingers dip lower, stroking through your slick, teasing your entrance, then sliding up to your clit with the lightest pressure. You cry out, hips rolling against his hand.

“This wet already?” he tuts with a smirk, voice wrecked. “All for me?”

You nod, panting. “Yes. Only you. Always you.”

That sends him.

He groans, deep broken & filled with lust, he’s tugging his sweats down just enough to free himself. He’s thick, heavy, & flushed, already leaking at the tip. You reach for him, but he’s already lining himself up, rubbing the head through your folds. Just the feel against your clit has you gripping until your knuckles are white. His frenzied eyes locked with yours.

“You sure?” he asks, even now, when he knows he’s gonna sink into pleasure any second.

You cup his jaw. “Frankie. I’m yours.”

He pushes into you in one slow, breathtaking thrust. You cry out, back arching, his name slipping past your lips like a it’s the last words you’ll ever say. He sinks in deep, so deep, until he’s seated fully, hips flush with yours, filling you to the hilt. He’s shaking, just barely.

“Fuck,” he moans. “You’re so tight. So perfect.”

He stills inside you for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing like you just ran a marathon.

Then, he moves & boy do you know you’re about to experience immense pleasure.

Slow at first, deep & controlled, letting you feel every inch. His hips roll into yours, his cock dragging along every nerve ending you didn’t even know you had. Your legs tighten around him, pulling him closer, & he grunts. You meet each thrust eagerly, matching his rhythm, clinging to him as the counter rocks beneath you. His hand finds your clit again, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts, &your moans get louder, needier. Desperate to please him.

“Cum for me,baby” he pants, lips brushing your ear. “Let me feel you fall apart, baby.”

You break. Your orgasm hits hard & fast, your body clenching around him, you can’t even scream in your breathless state. He follows moments later, burying himself deep as he spills inside you with a hoarse moan of your name, one hand gripping your waist like you might disappear.

For a long moment, neither of you move. Just breath. Skin on skin. His body still wrapped around yours. The fresh scent of sex & coffee lingering in the air.

Then Frankie leans in & kisses you, soft & slow, the kind of kiss that will linger well past this morning.

“Definitely,” he murmurs, brushing your nose with his, “my favorite addiction.”

The kitchen is quiet but still humming, steam curling from forgotten mugs, your heartbeat echoing in your ears. Frankie’s arms stay locked around you as he eases his forehead against yours, both of you catching what breath you can find. He brushes a thumb across your cheek, eyes lingering on the flush there. A lazy grin curves his mouth, soft, teasing, utterly content.

“I could get used to this,” he murmurs, voice warm gravel. “You makin’ me coffee… & me…” he hitches a brow, lets the grin turn wicked “well… rewarding you like that every morning.”

A laugh slips out of you, breathless and shaky in the best way. “Is that your best offer, Morales?”

He gives a slow, deliberate nod, then reaches up & plucks his own cap off your head. In one easy flick he sends it sailing across the room, lands somewhere near the fridge with a soft thud.

“Yeah,” he says, eyes never leaving yours. “It is.”

You bite your lip, feigning consideration. “Well, Morales, I do make a mean cup of coffee.”

“& I,” he rumbles, sliding his hands down your hips to lift you off the counter, keeping you flush against his chest, “have an endless supply of… incentives.”

Your legs wrap around him again on instinct. You feel him already stirring back to life, slow but insistent, against the slick heat between your thighs.

“Guess you’ll need more beans,” you whisper, nipping at his jaw.

“Guess I will,” he agrees, walking you toward the hallway, one hand splayed at the small of your back, steady as a promise. “But first? Round two in bed. Counter’s too damn hard for how soft I wanna take you this time. & we can heat the coffee up later.”

You gasp, a happy, helpless sound, fingers threading through his hair as he carries you away from the cooling coffee, toward warm sheets & another sunrise you’ll likely miss.

Some addictions, you decide, are worth feeding daily.

[hey-itsdollie]

Hello, would you be willing to write smut about a super sexy irresistible reader who likes to seduce people. She saw them being interviewed on TV and decided she wanted both. Right now she's juggling between Ness and Kaiser until one of them gets suspicious and finds out shes two timing him with his friend so they end up confronting her but little did they know she would still find a way to stay in control.

(Dom fem reader please)

❤️

Secrets out

‧₊˚ ┊ In which Kaiser and Ness find out you're two timing them

⋮ ⌗ ┆cw ⪼ smut, female reader, polyamorous, mentions of two timing, dom reader, aged up!, minors DNI

You let out a sigh, your thumb mindlessly flipping through the chats of your two recent playthings. One still going on about his recent practice while the other was asking to meet up. Reading the name of the rather luxurious restaurant you decided to go ahead and show up.

You showed up wearing a velvety form fitting dress, your heels being sharp enough to kill, as you walked to the restaurant’s entrance. The host kindly asked you for a reservation name–in which you smiled almost sickeningly sweet, “Kaiser.”

With the information the host immediately showed you to your table, your eyes briefly widening at the sight of both of your targets. Instead of feeling threatened or played you were rather amused.

“Oh, thank you for inviting me out, Michael dear.”

The two males both stared at you unamused, Kaiser wearing a fake smirk–getting up to place a hand on your hip as you kissed his cheek.

“I told you I had a surprise didn’t I?” He questioned motioning to Ness, the same male who was talking your ear off about his practices.

Kaiser walked you to your seat before going back to his own. Raising a glass of rich bourbon to his lips. “So do you enjoy your surprise, birdie?”

You held in a laugh already having a feeling of what the nickname was supposed to mean. “I do! How are you Alexis?” The said male turned to you, shocked you weren’t even going to act like he was a stranger.

“I’m good…” Ness answered, glancing repeatedly between you and the blonde. “I’m glad, your suit looks great on you–though your tie is a bit… crooked.”

The male froze as your hands went to his neck and gently fixed his appearance. The smell of your perfume hitting him immediately. 

“Hm, well this works out quite well. Surely you won’t fight over me like some cliche movie. So what do you exactly have planned?”

Kaiser grinned, “Let’s enjoy our time for now.” You matched his grin and nodded, “Sounds lovely.”

Dinner went by rather smoothly, so smoothly that the three of you ended up at Kaiser’s place.

“My my, the luxury in which you live always amazes me Michael.” You sing, walking through his large bedroom.

Kaiser watched you with a smirk, going to his bed and sitting down, letting his tattooed hand run through his hair. Ness stood against the wall, still not sure what exactly was going to happen.

“Alexis, sweetheart, why are you so tense?” You cooed going up to stand in front of him. Grinning gleefully at the sight of how his body physically weakened once your hands touched his chest.

“Always so weak for me…” You whispered into his ear, placing a kiss to his earlobe. “N/n…” He muttered as you pulled away gazing up into his foggy eyes. “I know.”

Ness was taken by surprise once your lips landed on his. Not only were you kissing him in front of Kaiser, but the sight of Kaiser’s still-standing smirk made Ness’s eyes widen.

A small whimper left the dark-haired male’s throat as you undid his suit, unbuttoning his shirt quickly so your soft hands could run over his hot skin.

Your hands traveled below, undoing his belt easily letting his pants fall to his ankles.

You kneeled onto the ground, pulling his cock out of it’s confines. “So big…” You purred, slowly moving your thumb over his leaking slit. Ness bit his lip leaning his head back against the wall.

“Hm, sensitive already?” You questioned beginning to jerk him off.

“Just going to put a show on for me?” Kaiser questioned, hsi shirt already off, pants unzipped, and his large cock stood tall around his closed fist.

“What you enjoying it?” You laughed, turning to look at him. His sharp eyes easily finding yours. “You’re a fucking temptress…” He cursed as you hummed in acknowledgement. “Oh? Am I?”

The moment Ness whimpered following his creamy release falling onto your hands. You licked it up while walking over to the bed. Ness had slid down onto the ground panting as his legs shook.

 “Oh? Is it my turn already?” The blonde hummed tilting his head as you climbed to straddle him. “Let’s see if that mouth is better for something other than talking.”

Kaiser scoffed and laid back against the pillows pulling you over him as he slipped your panties off from underneath your dress.

Your knees were on each side of his head, his hands gripping your thighs as he pulled your dripping cunt to his lips. Your hands were planted onto the wall, forcing your body to stay stabilized as Kaiser’s tongue ripped moans from your throat.

“Agh–just like that–good boy…” You moaned glancing down at the blonde who was lapping at your folds. Only his eyes being visible as he had you sit on his face.

You couldn’t help but rock yourself back and forth on his face, his tongue diving deep into your hot swollen hole. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Ness jerking off, whimpers leaving him as they easily mixed with your moans and Kaiser’s own groans.

“Doing so well…” You praised feeling Kaiser’s grip on your thighs tighten enough to leave bruises. The heated bubble in your stomach popped leading to your legs to shake and clamp around Kaiser’s head.

Your mind goes blank as you hear Kaiser slurping up your juices.

“fuck…”

©hey-itsdollie please don't copy, change, or steal my work. Thank you!

[thelovelywriteress]

DEVIL MAY CRY: FILM INDUSTRY AU! GOSSIP SPECIAL

Step aside, Film Industry—Hell just got hotter. It isn’t just burning with fire—it’s burning with jealousy, flirtation, and forbidden affection. Rumors are flying! The superstars twins: Dante and Vergil, are now not just competing for films anymore—they’re both aiming for the same heart, the heart that belongs to the same level popular star (name)!

And you know how things get between fans especially Vergil and Dante fans, who like their idols are always on the other side of rope─competing for the spotlight. Love triangle among the twins and the (name) is just turning fans crazy and their theories to evidence even crazier!

As we say before the fandom is currently split right down the middle: #TeamDante, #TeamVergil, and of course, the rising rebel group known as #TeamThrouple. (Ahh yes the old-why choose only one? when you can have both!). Ever since Dante, Vergil, and (name) started dropping suspicious crumbs all over the place, their fandom has split into hardcore camps—and the battles for who's the "real" couple are peak chaos.

#TEAMDANTE

“You cannot convince us otherwise. (name) literally laughed at Dante’s joke that wasn’t even funny. That’s LOVE, baby.”

── Behind-the-scenes footage where Dante "casually" wipes something off (name)’s cheek.

Let's be real chat, no matter how flirty and mischievous Dante is, we had never seen him getting close to other stars rather than few verbal remarks but with (name)? He is just all about physical contact! And plus you see (name)'s reaction? They both have so relaxed reaction like it's every day thing for them. Now you won't be this casual with someone you are not dating now will you?

── (Name) and Dante literally had been top choices for all rom-coms! Most of their early films were even with each other.

It is no lie that many directions have bluntly confessed that (Name) and Dante were their first choice for any film that involves "romance" and Dante, who unlike his twin got only in spotlight after this two blockbuster romantic films which includes "(name)". So they know each other from long time and old friends to lovers is not a new troup to see anyways.

── (Name) and Dante have post many pictures together and show preference to spend time with each other.

Okay so is now everyone either blind or straight up idiots! Like what proof do we need more to see, these two definitely got something going between them which they wants to hide from public (their choice!🙌) but come onnnnn you can't be this blind to ignore the oblivious signs. in some interviews stated how they likes to hangout (informal word for 'date') together as they find each other's 'presence's fun'.

#TEAMVERGIL

“Vergil and (name) spotted in park together in disguise. They sit on a bench. At one point? They bump shoulders and he doesn’t move away??! Bro they are literal comfort zones of each other.”

── Vergil posts about being excited to work with (name) on their new film.

Okay we all know despite being a wonderful and famous actor─Vergil is still such awkward especially when it comes to his other fellow stars. He barely post anything on his socials or rarely even mentions other celebrities so you should get gist by now that how much significance (name) hold that 'he.is.excited.to.work.with.(name)'

── (name) who jokes about being lucky to get chance at acting cause their academic life sucks, are now suddenly posting quotes from classic literature.

(name), who in past have often criticized their academic skills and even state reason for coming into acting (media from random youtube, og interview is no where to be found): "I had many books those's plot interest me but I couldn't just find the focus and attention to read them, so I hope one day I can act or direct all those books so can I watch them instead!" An actor who once's couldn't find focus and attention to read is now posting quotes from orginal classics? Suspicious, isn't it? More suspicious it becomes when you realised in our industry only one other person is known to read classics (and oddly same classics (name) post's about) who is Vergil and another point that (name) start to show interest in literature around the same time their blurry photos in the park started to get viral.

── Many directors have state that (name) and Vergil work most efficiently together.

Guess who despite not even getting cast in couple roles still acts more naturally together? Yes, (name) and Vergil! Many directions seem to believe that they both respectively work more better when other one is around and due to this reason even if one isn't in the film, they will still cast other one in minor role interaction with major role so they will give their best. And while it might see casual for (name) but Vergil often accompanies (name) throughout the film on set even if his role is already done. These guys are just straight up example of those obvious couples who won't just agree that they are dating!

#TeamThrouple

“Why don't they all just accept each other's feelings for each other and start being poly! It's big 2025─everyone deserves love.”

Umm we don't say much about it but hey atleast this way everyone's fan will be happy! Now that's a pro.

What’s really going on behind the scenes? Is this a clever PR move, a real messy love triangle, or are we just projecting our shipping fantasies onto three ridiculously good-looking people who accidentally created the most intense slow-burn romance in the industry?

Now that's something we still have to find but seeing how interesting things have turn─It looks like this one gonna be on trend for while.

So stay tuned with us as we search our best on this trio and bring you the newest evidence about who is kissing whom, who got dating whom!

Now, now fellas don't ask me what was I smoking while I write this but hey! isn't this a nice one tho. (⁠◠⁠ᴥ⁠◕⁠ʋ⁠)

So this thing is inspired about by i. me and my friend in our school days, making exaggerated gossips about boys and girls separately (yes yuri and yaoi fans can be friends 😔✊) and just laugh to ourselves and ii. that asking chatgpt to make love island with your friends reel.

And ofc the literally inspiration─I was scrolling through tiktok and then saw few fan edits of actor-actress, saw the comments under it and was like damn this is fun and here we are sir🫡✨

Through isn't it fun fellas? Seeing how crazy the fanbase is about whom do you get chemistry with more(⁠◠⁠‿⁠・⁠)⁠—⁠☆

[wasteofmfzb]

hope its alright to reblog with some tangential references i noticed, the second one may not be all that tied to dess but i found them interesting! (also apologies for my shitty screenshot quality, youtube hates me)

first off, in the knight fight, the dialogue that displays after susie or ralsei are defeated directly quotes mother 1 and 2. (i didnt notice this myself, i found out abt it thru andrew cunningham’s second chapter 4 stream, however he does falsely attribute both to being from earthbound, when only one is)

susie’s is from mother 1, being the dialogue for when your party members are defeated. pretty straight forward.

ralsei’s is from earthbound/mother 2, and its most notably the dialogue for when the teddy bear items are killed. teddy bears are an item exclusive to this game that will tank damage for your party when in your inventory. this one i actually caught on my playthrough as sounding incredibly familair, but i didnt quite connect the dots myself then. it is interesting the parallel placed on ralsei to just being an item, given his whole nature as a darkner, and i imagine thats part of the motivation behind the reference

this next thing is from the egg room in chapter 3. my immediate reaction upon seeing this for the first time was to completely lose my shit because Oh My God Thats Mother 1 .

(pulled up someones ancient old playthru for convenience, sorry lol)

for some context the forgotten man is a required npc in magicant, a realm created by the subconscious of maria (ninten’s great grandmother). he blocks the exit you need to pass through to progress the game, and will not disappear without agreeing to ignore him.

honest to god i could not tell you what to make of this reference, i barely have a read on anything going on in these recent chapters egg rooms, but its definitely an interesting connection to make. its one of mother 1’s more standout interactions imo.

(also, some context to the ninten’s mom being named carol thing for anyone unfamilar with the mother series; she is never named in game. same goes for ninten’s dad, and both of ness’s parents. the source cited on wikibound for her name was from earthbound central, which is now inaccesible afaik, however you can find a starmen.net forum post discussing this fact pretty easily, which ill link here if you wanna read it yourself. tldr is shes mentioned by name as carol in the manual for the original famicom release.)

hey toby. what are we doing here toby.

toby please

extra: did you know that ninten is called 'doug halloway' in the MOTHER choose your own adventure book? like. like. dess holidaAAAHHHHH AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH IM GOING FUCKING INSANE LET ME OUTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT GET ME OFF THIS CRAZY DAMN RIDEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

[hellmunsonfire]

Blue Terror (Pirate Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader)

⚠️ Warnings: This fic contains themes that may be disturbing or triggering to some readers, including: violence, slavery, captivity, physical abuse, death mentions, degradation, non-consensual power dynamics, psychological manipulation, blood and barbaric acts, themes of war and trauma, and morally ambiguous characters. SMUT +18. ROUGH SMUT. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

I would like to remind you that English is not my first language, and part 2 will be written on request.

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Year 1672.

They say the sea holds more secrets than the sky ever will. Whispers of vanishing ships, blood-soaked decks, and names cursed by both wind and wave. And yet, nothing ever touches your quiet shore. Not until it does.

You grow up in a village so small, it doesn't even appear on most maps. Hidden among the cliffs and tangled trees of the northern coast, it smells of brine and fresh earth, of woodsmoke and rosemary. Your cottage is crooked but warm, tucked between hills that cradle your world like an old lullaby. You and your father—he with calloused hands and a voice like gravel soaked in honey—grow vegetables in the hard, stubborn soil. You sell them at market twice a week, your cart creaking along the muddy path, wheels humming a song of routine and survival. Life is simple.

You’ve heard stories, of course. Everyone has. Blue Terror, they call him—the captain who carves his name into the ocean with a blade of smoke and thunder. A man who sails with ghosts and answers to none. You don’t believe it. Or maybe, you simply choose not to.

Because believing means fearing, and fearing means acknowledging that peace is always borrowed, never owned.

Your nights are quiet. You fall asleep to the crackle of firewood, your father’s snores in the other room, the soft chirr of insects serenading the dark. And you wake each morning with sun on your skin, dew on the window glass, and dirt already under your nails. There’s a rhythm to everything. A comfort in knowing where each step will land before it touches earth.

But comfort is a fragile thing.

You remember that morning well—the one that unravels your world like thread from a torn hem. The wind shifts. The birds fall silent. The air smells wrong, like metal and fire and the breath of something ancient rising from the deep.

You’re just returning from the market, your basket still heavy with coin and leftover herbs. The path curves toward your home, and for a moment everything feels normal—until it doesn’t. Smoke curls above the treetops. The sound of shouts—low, guttural, foreign—rip through the quiet.

You run.

You run until your lungs burn and your feet slip on the gravel. But it’s too late.

The garden is trampled. Your home—splintered wood and ash. And your father…

You don’t let your mind go there. You can’t.

Rough hands find you before you even make it to the threshold. You're dragged backwards, your screams swallowed by the chaos. Faces you don’t recognize, speaking a language you don’t understand. Symbols you’ve only seen drawn in red ink on old sailors' maps. The mark of the Blue Terror.

They tie your wrists with thick rope. Your feet stumble against stone and splintered roots. And all you can think, all that echoes in the hollow behind your ribs, is this:

You’ve heard the stories. But you never thought you’d become one.

They drag you through the ruins of what once was your home. Smoke coils around broken rooftops like fingers refusing to let go. Flames dance in doorways, licking old wooden beams until they collapse into embers. The screams of your neighbors echo through the air—raw, panicked, animal. Mothers clutching their children. Men trying to fight with farming tools, only to be cut down or slammed into the mud. The stench of burning hay, of sweat and iron and salt, clings to your skin.

You stumble past the market stall where you and your father once sold rosemary and turnips. It’s overturned now, crushed beneath the boot of a man shouting in a tongue you don’t know.

Others are tied up like you, their hands bound in rough rope that digs into skin, already turning raw. Some are younger than you. Some older. All with the same wide, unblinking eyes, all walking toward the same unknown horror. A girl near you sobs so hard she can barely breathe. A man falls to his knees and is kicked until he gets up again. One pirate laughs, sharp and cold like broken glass, as he yanks on someone’s rope to make them move faster.

“Move,” another snarls behind you, the command punctuated by a shove between your shoulders. You nearly fall, your knees buckling, but you manage to keep walking. If you fall, you might not get up.

The docks are chaos. Fires reflect on the dark water, turning the sea to molten gold and shadow. And rising from it, like something pulled from a fever dream, is the ship.

It is monstrous.

The hull is made of dark, weather-worn wood, reinforced with iron plates that gleam dully in the firelight. Thick ropes and heavy nets hang from its masts like webs spun by a god. Its sails are down, but you can see the edges—blackened and patched with leather, worn by wind and war. Lanterns hang from the sides, their light swaying gently with the tide, casting ghostly glows on the faces of the men waiting to load spoils. And there—high above, fluttering in the hot breeze—is the flag.

A skull wreathed in red fire. Teeth bared. Empty eyes staring straight into your soul.

The mark of the Blue Terror.

Your breath catches. For the first time, you stop walking. But only for a moment—another shove sends you stumbling forward, onto the gangplank that groans under the weight of so many stolen lives.

Once your boots touch the deck, someone grabs your arm and hurls you forward.

You hit the wooden floor hard, your knees screaming in pain. Splinters bite into your skin. You don’t dare cry out. You barely even breathe.

Above you, the sky spins, grey smoke curling toward stars you can’t see. The world rocks beneath you, and you realize—it’s not the world. It’s the ship. Already shifting with the tide. Already carrying you away.

Around you, pirates bark orders and haul crates onto the deck—crates stolen from your neighbors, filled with food, tools, jewelry, even children’s toys. One man laughs as he holds up a silver mirror, admiring his reflection before tossing it into a barrel.

You're pulled up again, this time into a crooked line of prisoners along the center of the deck. There’s no speaking, only the sound of footsteps, chains, the creak of wood, and the occasional whimper.

They begin to inspect you.

One man lifts your chin with the tip of a dagger, muttering something under his breath. Another tugs at someone’s hair, checking the roots. Teeth are examined. Wrists. Eyes. Bodies.

They sort through you like fruit at a market—testing, prodding, calculating. You can feel it. They’re not just looking for strength or beauty. They’re searching for something else. Value. Use.

You stand still. Your heart pounds so hard it threatens to break your ribs. You want to disappear, to wake up, to run—but the sea waits, endless and black, and the ship holds you like a mouth that has already begun to chew.

You close your eyes. Not because you want to shut out the chaos—though God knows, you do—but because your mind is screaming for stillness. Just for a breath. Just for a heartbeat.

You whisper a prayer, though you’re not sure to whom. Maybe to the sea. Maybe to whatever god is cruel enough to let this happen but kind enough to let you survive it. Your fingers tremble against the rope binding your wrists. Your knees ache from where you fell. And yet, somehow, your thoughts race louder than the screams around you. If I run now, they’ll cut me down. If I jump…

Your eyes flick toward the edge of the ship. The water churns below—black and vast, stretching to the ends of the world. Could you make it? With your hands bound, your legs weak, your lungs tight with fear… could you hold your breath long enough to disappear? To sink before they find you?

But the thought dies as a sharp splash cuts through the night air. Then another. And another. You turn—just in time to see one of the prisoners, a man, hurled over the side of the ship. His scream is strangled mid-air, swallowed by the sea before it can even echo. A woman follows next, her arms tight at her sides, hands tied. She doesn’t scream. She just closes her eyes before the dark water claims her. One after the other, they are tossed like useless cargo, vanishing into the depths without so much as a second glance from their captors.

You feel bile rise in your throat as the brutal reality settles in. It’s barbaric. Inhuman. The kind of cruelty you thought only existed in stories meant to frighten children by firelight. And yet here it is—blood-warm and breathing all around you. But more terrifying than the ones discarded… are the ones they decide to keep.

When it’s over, there are only six of you left.

A pirate walks by, dragging a thick chain that clinks with every step, the sound sharp and final. His face is half-covered in tattoos, his beard tied with clacking beads. He grunts something to another, jerking his head toward your group. You can’t understand the language, but you understand the tone. A moment later, another voice—rough and accented, but in your own tongue—confirms what you already fear. “They’ll go below. Chain them up. We’ll clean them for market when the time comes.”

Market.

The word alone is enough to hollow you out. Your stomach turns to ice. Around you, the others begin to break. One girl collapses in on herself, sobbing. A boy pleads through tears, offering to work, to fight, to do anything if they just let him go. No one listens. No one even looks at him.

You’re pushed forward, toward the ship’s lower deck. The steps are narrow and slick, and the deeper you go, the heavier the air becomes. It smells of rust, damp wood, and despair. And then you see them—cages. Real ones. Iron bars, bolted to the ship’s floor, some already occupied, most waiting.

One by one, you’re shoved inside.

Your cage is barely large enough to sit, let alone stand. Your wrists are still bound, your breathing shallow. The door slams shut behind you with a metallic finality that leaves you hollow.

Above, the ship groans as it begins to move, drifting from the dock, slipping into the sea’s current. Through a gap in the wooden planks, you press your face to the hull, heart pounding. In the distance, you can still see it—your home. Smoke billows into the sky like a mourning shroud. The crooked roof of your cottage. The outline of the garden. The soft hills that once cradled your world.

And then, slowly, it all begins to disappear.

The village gets smaller and smaller, until it is just a smudge of memory swallowed by the dark horizon. You watch it vanish, ash on the wind.

Days blur into one another down there, in the bowels of the ship. You lose count after the third. Time has no meaning beneath the waves. There's only the creaking of the wood, the groans of metal against the tide, the faraway thunder of footsteps above, and the occasional screech of gulls reminding you that the world still exists outside these walls.

You’re fed once, maybe twice a day—stale, sour bread so hard you have to soak it in your own spit just to chew. Sometimes a sliver of dried meat. Often, nothing at all. You’re thirsty more than you’re hungry. Your throat stays dry, your lips cracked. No sunlight touches your skin. The air smells like wet rot and rusting chains. Your hands have started to blister from the ropes that remain around your wrists, and your ankles ache from crouching in the cage that never lets you stand fully upright.

You dream of warmth. Of your father’s voice. Of earth under your fingernails. But even dreams begin to fade when hope starts to die.

Then one morning—if it even is morning—two pirates descend into the dark.

They don’t speak. Just unlock your cage with a screech of iron and grab you by the arms. You barely resist. There’s no point. You’re too weak, too cold, too tired. You’re dragged up the stairs, feet slipping, knees scraping along the worn wood. The sudden brightness stabs into your eyes like daggers. You squint, hiss, nearly cry out as the sunlight pours down on you, unfiltered and blinding.

It takes a long time to adjust.

You feel like a creature pulled from the underworld. Everything is too loud. Too bright. The sea, impossibly vast and blue, stretches in every direction. The sun blazes overhead, gold and cruel. The ship rocks gently beneath you, no land in sight. Just waves. Endless, glimmering waves.

Then something heavy lands at your feet. A bucket. A dirty rag.

One of the pirates kicks the bucket toward you and snarls, “Clean.”

You don’t argue. You don’t even speak. You drop to your knees and dip the cloth into the bucket. The water is lukewarm, tinged with blood and salt. You press it to the deck and begin to scrub.

The rope on your wrists remains tight. Every motion burns. But you keep cleaning.

Around you, the pirates pay you little attention. They drink from metal flasks, loud and rowdy, their laughter sharp and ugly. Some sharpen their blades, dragging whetstones along the curved steel with a sound that turns your stomach. Others throw bones or coins, their games loud, aggressive. The air reeks of sweat, gunpowder, and rum.

You keep your head down. You don’t want to be noticed.

But then—something shifts. The air itself seems to pause. Laughter dims. A hush ripples across the deck like the first breath before a storm.

You feel it before you see him. Boots—black, worn, marked with symbols you don’t understand—step into view. Slow, steady, deliberate. You look up.

And there he is.

Eddie Munson. The Blue Terror. The Ghost of the Tides. Devil of the Azure Wake.

His reputation came long before his face. You’d heard whispers in the market, drunken warnings from sailors leaning too far over barrels of ale. They said his ship hunted without mercy. That he painted his sails with the blood of those who defied him. That his smile came only after screams. And when the wind carried his name, it did so in fear.

But no one ever said he looked like this.

Sunlight catches in the wild halo of his dark curls, tied back loosely with a blood-red bandana. Silver rings gleam on his fingers, worn over calloused hands that rest casually on the hilt of a curved cutlass. Beads and bone trinkets hang from his ear, some braided into his hair. His coat is deep navy, nearly black, lined with faded embroidery and burn marks. It flares behind him like wings, swaying with each step. Around his neck, a chain clinks gently, fastened to a stone medallion the color of a storm cloud.

And his eyes.

Dark, endless, unreadable. They scan the deck like a predator. Slow. Unhurried. Unbothered. When they land on you, your breath catches in your throat. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks.

But you feel it in your spine—the sense of being seen, not just as a prisoner, not just as another unfortunate soul caught in a net… but as something else. Something worth pausing for.

Your hands tremble. You don’t know if you should bow your head or meet his gaze. You don’t know if this is salvation or the edge of the blade.

By the time the sun begins its slow descent into the sea, your body is beyond exhausted. Every muscle aches, your skin burns where the chains have rubbed raw, and your knees are numb from hours spent crawling, scrubbing, lifting. They bark orders, and you obey. Not because you’re obedient—but because you’re desperate. You’ll clean bloodstains off the planks, haul damp crates from one end of the deck to the other, carry firewood under your arms until splinters bloom across your palms—anything, anything, to avoid being dragged back into that cage again.

You're too afraid to hope. But still, somewhere deep in your chest, buried beneath the filth and fatigue, a tiny ember flickers.

Just before twilight, you’re led below deck—past the cannons, through the narrow corridors that creak and groan with every shift of the ship—and finally brought into a room that smells of onions, smoke, and old salt. The kitchen, you assume. Or what passes for one on this floating prison.

A woman stands at the far end, hunched over a wooden table where she’s chopping vegetables with a dull iron blade. Her sleeves are rolled up, her greying hair tied back with a piece of old cloth, and her face is lined with years of sun, salt, and sorrow. She doesn’t look up at first. Just gestures vaguely with her knife. “Water’s in the bucket. Start with those,” she says, nodding toward a crate of limp carrots and root vegetables.

You approach slowly, uncertain, and kneel beside the crate. The water in the bucket is cloudy but cool. You begin scrubbing the dirt off the carrots, your fingers working automatically even as your mind races. The woman says nothing for a long while, the only sounds in the room the rhythmic thud of her knife and the distant cries of gulls outside the porthole.

After a while, her voice cuts through the quiet, soft but pointed. “You lasted longer than most. Most break by midday.”

You glance up, unsure if she’s mocking you, but her eyes remain fixed on her task. You swallow, your voice rasped and dry. “Where are we going?” The question comes out barely above a whisper.

She hesitates. Just a beat. Then resumes chopping. “Nowhere you’d want to be.”

A pause. You wash another carrot, your hands moving slower now. “What will they do with us?”

The woman’s blade stills.

She leans slightly closer, her voice dropping into a whisper so low you can barely hear it over the creak of the ship. “Depends. If you’re lucky, you stay here. Work in the kitchens, clean the captain’s boots, empty the piss pots. The ones who survive and keep their heads down—sometimes they get to stay.”

“And if you’re not lucky?”

Her eyes flick toward you then—quick and sharp, like a knife slipping between ribs. “Then you’re sold. Shipped off at the next black market. Or worse.” Her voice softens again, but this time it’s not pity you hear. It’s memory. “I came aboard this ship seventeen years ago. My husband and two sons were killed when we were taken. I was given to the crew as entertainment.” Her hands keep moving, but her gaze is somewhere far away. “I survived by becoming useful. Quiet. Invisible.”

You don’t speak. There’s a sour taste in your mouth that has nothing to do with hunger.

She sets the knife down and moves toward a shelf, gathering ingredients into a wooden tray—bread, a wedge of cheese, a small roasted bird, and something that smells like honey and spice. It’s more food than you’ve seen in days. Her movements are methodical, practiced. She balances the tray carefully, then turns and looks directly at you.

“You’re taking this to the captain’s quarters.”

You blink. “Me?”

The tray is heavy in her hands. She thrusts it toward you. “Yes. You. Don’t drop anything. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t look where you shouldn’t.”

Your heartbeat thunders. “Why me?”

She tilts her head. “Because you’re not broken yet. And because someone noticed.”

That sends a jolt through your chest—but before you can ask what she means, she’s already turning away. “Clean yourself first,” she adds over her shoulder, pointing toward a wooden basin and a frayed sponge on the shelf. “Captain doesn’t want to smell the lower decks.”

You step toward the basin slowly. The water is cold, sharp against your skin, but you wash anyway. Your hands, your face, the dirt smudged along your neck and collarbone. You scrub until your skin is pink, until the salt and filth are peeled away and you almost feel human again.

Almost.

You return to the tray, fingers trembling as you slide your hands beneath it and lift. It’s heavier than it looks. The scent of warm bread and meat rises around you like a cruel joke.

The woman opens the door and nods toward the hallway. “Straight ahead. Last door on the left.”

You stand in front of the heavy wooden door, the tray trembling slightly in your hands. The hallway behind you is quiet, the air thick with heat and salt and the weight of what you’re about to do. You hesitate for a breath, then lift one hand and knock—twice, firm and deliberate.

A muffled voice answers from within. “Come in.”

You push the door open with your shoulder and step inside, the scent of cedar, rum, and old smoke washing over you instantly. The room is dimly lit by a series of lanterns swinging gently from the ceiling beams. The wooden floor is smooth but scuffed from years of boots and battle. The walls are lined with iron hooks, some bearing weapons—curved cutlasses, rusted pistols, a strange-looking crossbow. A dark blue coat with gold buttons hangs from the back of a high-backed leather chair.

And at the center of it all is a massive desk, carved from black oak and scarred by time and flame. Papers and maps are spread across it like a fan of secrets. And there he is.

Captain Eddie Munson.

He stands over the desk with one hand braced against the map and the other toying with a small, wickedly curved dagger. His curls are loose now, framing his face in wild shadows, and a single silver ring glints as it catches the lantern light. His brow is furrowed, his focus unshakable, the tension in his jaw sharp as steel. He doesn’t look up when you enter.

You move silently, every footstep calculated, your breath caught somewhere between your ribs. You place the tray on a smaller side table beside the desk without a sound. Your eyes never leave the floor. You can feel your own heartbeat—loud, shaky, insistent. And your stomach lets out a low, humiliating growl.

You flinch. He doesn’t seem to notice.

You take a step back, ready to turn and leave as quietly as you came, when his voice slices through the stillness.

“Hey. You.”

You freeze.

“Come here.”

You hesitate, every warning from the kitchen woman screaming in your ears. Keep your head down. Don’t speak. Don’t get involved. But your body obeys before your brain does. You step closer, slowly, until you're standing at the edge of the desk.

He finally looks up.

His eyes are darker than the ocean outside. Piercing. Curious. Calculating. But not cruel.

He taps the edge of the map. “What do you think?” he asks, his voice low and rough like gravel soaked in wine. “If we cut across this current, we save two days. But the waters are... tricky.”

You blink, unsure if you’ve heard him right. Is he asking you?

You open your mouth, then close it. You glance at the map, then at him. “I... I’m not sure I should say.”

One dark brow lifts slightly. “And yet, here you are. Looking.”

You swallow. Your heart is galloping. “If you go that way,” you say quietly, carefully, “you might save time, but the wind shifts in that region often. You could be stranded. Or worse. I think you should stay along the outer path. It’ll take longer... but you’ll arrive intact.”

Silence falls between you. You curse yourself internally. You were supposed to be invisible. Quiet. And instead, here you are, giving tactical advice to the most feared pirate on the sea.

But then—he smiles.

Just a flicker. Barely there. But it softens his face in a way that’s almost disarming.

“Interesting,” he murmurs. “Most of my crew can’t even read a map.”

You drop your gaze again, your stomach churning with dread and something else—something warmer, sharper, dangerously close to intrigue.

“Are you hungry?” he asks suddenly.

You shake your head. “No, Captain.”

He leans back in his chair, grabs a goblet of deep red wine, and gestures to the tray. “Sit. Eat.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Captain, I—”

“That’s an order.”

There’s no bite to his tone. No cruelty. But it’s firm.

You nod, slowly lowering yourself into the smaller chair across from him. Your fingers tremble as you tear a piece of bread and bring it to your lips. The warmth of it feels unreal. After days of stale crumbs, it tastes like salvation.

Eddie watches you. Not like a hunter. More like a scholar. He takes a sip from his cup, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make your skin prickle.

“What’s your name?”

You hesitate, then offer it—softly, like a secret you’re afraid to let go of.

He nods. Repeats it once, like tasting the sound of it. “And when did you come aboard my ship?”

You glance down. “A few days ago. From the last village.”

“Ah.” His fingers trace the stem of his goblet. “That was a good haul. Shame about the fire.”

You say nothing. You’re not sure you can speak.

He gestures toward the map again. “Ever sailed before?”

You shake your head. “No, Captain.”

“But you read the stars? The wind?”

You look at him, cautious. “I read books. My father taught me. I listened. I remembered things.”

Eddie hums, thoughtful, as he leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “You might be useful,” he says softly, but not to himself.

To you.

And you don’t know if that’s a promise, or a threat.

It’s been two weeks since your cage opened and the sea became your ceiling.

Two weeks since the floor stopped rocking under your knees and started rocking under your feet instead. Two weeks since Captain Eddie Munson—Blue Terror, Ghost of the Tides, the name whispered like a curse along every broken shoreline—called you into his chambers and didn’t send you back.

Since then, you’ve spent most of your days—and too many of your nights—within those walls. Studying maps. Reading stars. Learning currents, wind patterns, routes carved by blood and time. You trace inked lines with trembling fingers while he leans over your shoulder, smelling of salt and steel and something darker you can’t name.

He gives you space, but not distance. Kindness, but not trust.

Still, you’ve earned something.

A room of your own.

Small, windowless, tucked deep beneath the captain’s quarters, but it’s clean. The straw-stuffed mattress doesn’t smell like mold. The bucket isn’t shared. And the door doesn’t lock from the outside. It’s not freedom. But it’s a kind of illusion—and for now, that’s enough.

You’re not a prisoner. Not exactly. But you’re not one of them either.

And they know it.

The crew watches you like a splinter under their skin—always there, always itching. You catch it in their eyes when you pass. In the way conversations stop when you walk by. The way they mutter under their breath, clench their knives tighter, throw buckets harder than necessary when they hand them to you. You're protected. Untouchable, even. But you're not welcome.

To them, you’re the captain’s pet. A soft thing with soft hands, whispering advice over maps while they bleed and sweat for the same man.

You don’t defend yourself. Let them think you’ve surrendered. Let them believe you’re playing house in the captain’s quarters like some tamed animal. Let them underestimate you. It’s easier that way.

Because you’re not here to belong.

You’re here to remember.

You think about your village often. At night, especially—when the lanterns go out and the ship groans with sleep. Nightmares. You see the smoke curling above the rooftops. The gardens trampled. The old man who taught you to read the stars crushed under rubble. You see your father’s hands, calloused and trembling as he tried to fight for you. And you feel it all again, fresh and raw.

Eddie Munson sends you clothes now. Silks, leathers, sometimes stained in places he pretends not to notice. He leaves them folded at your door with a strange sort of reverence. Necklaces too—pearls, rubies, emeralds—and you wonder whose throats they were ripped from. You wear them when you must. Smile when he studies you with those unreadable eyes. Say thank you.

But you don’t forget.

You never forget.

Because these aren’t gifts. They’re evidence. Spoils. Everything around you was stolen—from someone, somewhere. Every ring on your fingers, every thread on your back, bought with someone else’s blood.

Still, you play the part. You study the man behind the mask. You watch the way he speaks to his crew—half warning, half performance. You count the number of times he lets his mask slip around you. The way he softens when he laughs. The way he says your name like it belongs in his mouth. The way he listens when you speak, really listens. As if you have something to say that matters.

You wonder if it’s an act.

You wonder if his kindness is a kind of rope, braided with patience and silk, just waiting to tighten.

But part of you wants to believe—no, needs to believe—that there’s more to him than the stories. Because how can a man so feared, so monstrous, look at you like he’s trying to understand you? Like he’s waiting for you to tell him who you really are?

The ship moans softly as it nears the dock, its massive hull slicing through the morning mist like a blade. You’ve grown so used to the rocking of the waves beneath your feet that when the motion begins to settle, your balance stutters—almost as if the world itself has stilled in anticipation.

After dressing, you eat your breakfast in silence, heart pacing with the odd rhythm of something changing. Something ending, or perhaps beginning. The soft roll of bread feels strange in your mouth, the tea too warm for your suddenly dry throat.

You make your way to Eddie’s quarters, feet light against the floorboards. You don’t bother knocking anymore. You just open the door.

He’s already there—standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders relaxed but alert, as though every bone in his body is coiled with knowing. His silhouette is haloed by the thin streaks of morning sun filtering through the dusty glass. He turns his head slightly when you enter, the ghost of a grin curving across his lips.

“Today’s the day,” he says simply.

You blink. “What day?”

Eddie’s smile spreads, slow and knowing. “The day you touch land again. I figured your feet might’ve forgotten what solid ground feels like.”

Your stomach flips. “You’re letting me off the ship?”

He raises an eyebrow. “We all are. There's business to tend to. You didn’t think I’d keep you in this floating coffin forever, did you?”

His tone is casual, teasing—but you’ve learned not to mistake ease for safety when it comes to him.

“Where are we?” you ask, trying to sound curious instead of desperate.

He moves away from the window, stepping over maps and scrolls strewn across the desk. “A small coastal town in Northern England,” he says, casually tossing a leather pouch onto the table with a clink.

You freeze for a moment. So that was it—collections, threats, blood. “Business.”

Eddie notices the shift in your breath, the stiffness in your jaw. And just when you think he’s about to turn away, he lifts something from the chest beside his desk and steps toward you.

You see it glint before it’s fully revealed: a necklace—no, a masterpiece. A heavy silver chain strung with deep green emeralds, blood-red rubies, sapphires dark as the ocean at midnight. Stones cut to catch every flicker of light, glowing with a stolen kind of royalty. It looks like something a queen would die wearing.

Your lips part slightly. “What is that?”

He doesn't answer.

Instead, he moves behind you.

You feel the heat of him first. His body so close, not quite touching—but there, surrounding you. The scent of salt, leather, and something unnameable fills your lungs.

Then his hand brushes your hair aside, slow and deliberate. His fingers graze the back of your neck, calloused and rough, sending a jolt down your spine. He gathers your hair over one shoulder, and you swear his breath ghosts against your skin as he leans in.

Goosebumps rise along your collarbone.

Your heart hammers.

The chain slides against your throat like a cold whisper. His fingers clasp it behind your neck with quiet precision, but they linger—just a second too long. His thumb brushes the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck, a touch light as air, but devastating. And he stays there. Close. His presence heavy against your back, lips nearly grazing the curve of your ear.

“This suits you,” he murmurs, voice low, velvet-wrapped and laced with danger. “Makes you look like you belong to the sea.”

Or to him.

You can’t speak. You’re not sure you’d know how. You feel like your body is betraying you—skin too hot, breath too shallow, heart pounding a rhythm between fear and something darker.

He doesn’t ask for thanks. He just steps away, letting the silence hum between you like a wire pulled tight.

“I sent a new dress to your room,” he adds casually, already turning back toward his desk. “Put it on. We make landfall within the hour.”

You nod, silent, and slip out of the room with the weight of the necklace pressing against your throat like a promise you didn’t agree to.

You return to your quarters with your heart caught in your throat, the weight of that jeweled necklace pressing against your collarbone like a silent anchor. As you open the creaking door, the scent of citrus and smoke still lingers faintly—someone has been here recently.

Your eyes fall instantly on the bed.

Laid out with reverence atop the rumpled blankets is a dress unlike anything you've ever seen.

It's made of midnight-blue velvet, so deep and dark it shimmers like still water under moonlight. The sleeves are long and slit open at the shoulders, revealing skin in sharp, elegant lines. Silver embroidery dances across the bodice like waves catching starlight, delicate vines swirling toward a corseted waist cinched with fine, silken threads. The skirt flows in layers, pooling like ink around your feet when you lift it. At the hem, tiny sapphire-like beads catch the light—tiny constellations stitched into fabric.

You don’t know how he expects you to wear this and blend in.

But then again, maybe he doesn’t.

As you begin to undress, your thoughts race with one single word, loud and pulsing: Escape.

If the ship is docked… if you're on land… maybe, just maybe, this is your chance.

You run through the options in your head like a frantic calculation. If you step away—just for a moment—could you lose yourself in the crowd? Slip between shadows? How long before they realize you’re missing? Ten minutes? Five?

Could you find a weapon before then? Maybe something small, something forgotten—like a knife left on a kitchen table. You’ve been in the galley enough times. You know where the drawers are. But would they notice? Would he?

And even if you made it away—what then?

You don’t speak the local. You don’t know this country’s laws or its streets. And you have nothing but stolen jewels hanging from your neck. Everyone knows pirate plunder. No merchant in their right mind would buy it. They’d report you. Maybe even collect a bounty.

You swallow thickly, pushing those thoughts down like bile, trying to calm your trembling hands as you pull the dress over your body. The velvet clings in all the wrong ways—too soft, too exposed, too not you. But you lace it tight. Stand tall. If you’re going to run, you need to look like you belong.

There’s a knock at the door. You turn sharply, startled, heart skipping. Then you hear it. His voice.

“Ready?”

You open the door. And there he is.

Captain Eddie Munson—Blue Terror—in full form. But this time, he’s not the shadow leaning over a map. He’s not the voice in the dark, or the hand on your neck. He’s myth, legend, and man all at once.

His dark hair falls in wild waves past his shoulders, some strands intricately braided with thin chains and beads that glint like sea glass. A black bandana is tied tightly across his forehead, and atop it, a weather-worn leather tricorn hat casts a rakish shadow across his features. One eye—the good one—is lined with kohl, intense and unreadable. The other is hidden behind a black eye patch, making him look even more dangerous. More untouchable.

He wears a white silk shirt, so bright it almost glows, the first few buttons undone to reveal a constellation of old scars across his chest—faded and brutal. Around his neck, silver chains and sharp-toothed pendants jingle softly when he moves. His black leather trousers are tight, slung low on his hips, and his boots are worn, but polished. Every step he takes is like thunder wrapped in silk.

And the rings—God, the rings—they flash when his fingers move. One bears a serpent. One, a skull. One, a sapphire as deep as his gaze.

He looks you up and down slowly, appraising, not like a man studying a prisoner… but like a king admiring his most precious weapon.

“You wear it well,” he says, voice dipped in smoke. “Let’s make them stare.”

The dock is alive with noise—ropes tightening, sails flapping, wood creaking, seagulls screaming. The moment your booted foot touches the ground, you feel it—stillness. No more rocking beneath your legs. Just solid, unmoving earth.

You almost stumble from the sudden change.

Eddie chuckles beside you. “Feels strange, doesn’t it?”

You don’t answer.

Your eyes scan the crowd. Merchants. Townsfolk. Sailors. Guards. You catalogue faces. Alleyways. Escape routes. Possibilities. Could you disappear here?

He leads you through streets and shadowed alleys until you reach a weathered inn. Its sign creaks above the doorway, half-hanging by rusted chains. Music filters through the wooden walls—lively, off-key, accompanied by the rhythmic pounding of boots against floorboards and the clink of mugs.

But the moment Eddie opens the door and steps inside with you at his side, everything stops.

The music falters.

Conversations die mid-sentence.

Every head turns toward you.

And then the whispers start.

“Blue Terror…”

“Munson.”

“Gods be good—it’s him.”

Eddie smiles like he owns the silence. Like it bends for him.

And maybe it does.

He places a hand lightly on the small of your back and leans in, voice low against your ear.

“Welcome to Crowhaven.”

As you step further into the inn, the initial hush begins to fade, replaced once again by the warm swell of life. Wooden mugs clink against battered tables, laughter erupts in pockets, and the music—faster now, wilder—spills from the corner where a ragged group of musicians plays a furious tune.

It’s something rooted in old lands and older hearts—fiddles slicing sharp through the smoke-thick air, bodhráns pounding like war drums beneath them, a wooden flute dancing somewhere high above it all. Irish, you think. The rhythm of fire and footfall. Of sea spray and spilled ale.

You feel eyes still trailing after you, some curious, some lecherous, some wary—but you’re not sure if they follow you or the man beside you.

Captain Eddie Munson draws every gaze.

He doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. He walks like a man who owns the floor, the air, the tension between each heartbeat.

He returns to your side with two mugs, frothy and thick. The scent of licorice and dark herbs rises from the surface—licorice beer. You take it with both hands, unsure whether to sip or throw it back like medicine. Eddie watches you over the rim of his own cup, smiling slightly, as if amused by your hesitation.

“Strong,” he warns.

“Everything with you is,” you mutter under your breath.

He laughs softly. Then, without a word, he reaches out and takes your hand.

You startle.

“What are you—”

He jerks his chin toward the center of the room where the space between tables has become an impromptu dancefloor. “Come on.”

“No—I don’t—I don’t know how to dance.”

“You don’t need to,” he says. “Just listen.”

And then he pulls you in.

You're suddenly among the swirl of bodies, of boots stomping and skirts spinning. The music coils around you, fast and urgent, and for a second, you can’t breathe.

Eddie’s hand slips around your waist, firm and unapologetic. His other hand wraps around your fingers, grounding you.

“Feel the rhythm,” he says, his lips close to your ear. “Let it drown out everything else.”

You want to protest, but your feet are already moving—awkward, hesitant steps that somehow fall into sync with his. He guides you with ease, like he’s done this a thousand times. His fingers press into your waist, not harsh, but commanding, pulling you closer as the music rises.

He spins you.

The room blurs.

You stumble, laugh, catch yourself on his chest—and he catches you like it’s nothing.

“See?” he grins. “Told you.”

You shake your head, breathless. “I still don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You’re dancing,” he says simply. “That’s all that matters.”

Then his arm tightens. You’re lifted—effortlessly, like you weigh nothing. For a moment you’re in the air, skirt billowing, hair loose and flying, your heartbeat louder than the music itself. He lowers you gently, but with a wild grin and a glint in his eye that makes your skin tingle.

He twirls you again, twice this time, until your body forgets to resist. And suddenly you're laughing—actually laughing—not because anything is funny, but because your body is alive. Because for the first time in weeks, you aren’t just surviving.

Eddie watches you with something close to awe. His good eye sharp, burning, like he’s trying to memorize your joy. And when the music slows just slightly, he draws you in—closer than before. You feel his breath against your cheek. You feel every inch of him, the warmth of his chest, the coarse fabric of his shirt, the chain around his neck brushing against your collarbone.

You don’t dare look up.

Because you’re not sure what you’ll do if you see him looking back.

But you feel it—the shift. Something between you flickering in the candlelight. No longer prisoner and captor. No longer pirate and pawn.

Everything else melts away the moment your eyes meet his. The music, the noise, the flickering candlelight, even the trembling of your own body—all of it dissolves, slipping into the background like a dying echo. There’s only him now. The way he looks at you like you’re the only soul in this damned place that still has a heartbeat. His gaze pins you in place, sharp and raw and hungry, like a flame curling around paper, waiting for permission to burn.

Your chest rises in shallow, unsure breaths, your pulse pounding in your ears so loudly you can barely hear yourself think. You’re afraid—and not of him, not really—but of what’s about to happen. Of how badly you want it to.

He leans in slowly, like a wave drawing back before it crashes. His hand slides from your waist to your jaw, rough fingertips ghosting over your skin with a reverence that contradicts the chaos of who he is. His thumb brushes your lower lip, and your breath hitches—then, without a word, his mouth meets yours.

It starts gentle, almost careful, as if he’s afraid you’ll break. But then your lips part—whether from instinct or desperation, you don’t know—and that’s all it takes. His hand grips the back of your neck, pulling you deeper into him, and suddenly the kiss turns molten. Urgent. Starved. His lips move against yours like they’re trying to memorize the shape of your breath, the taste of your name, the sound of your soul cracking open. He kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing that’s ever felt like air.

Your hands fist in the fabric of his shirt as he presses closer, chest to chest, hip to hip, the warmth of his body searing through the layers between you. His other hand curls around your waist, pulling you flush against him with a growl so low and raw you feel it in your spine. There’s nothing delicate left in it now—only teeth and tongues and the heat of something too big, too wild to control.

He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, biting down gently on your lower lip before soothing it with the slow drag of his mouth. The sensation shoots straight through you, every nerve ending awake and electric. His kisses are not just passionate—they're devastating, filled with something darker, something that feels like possession and longing and fury tangled into one.

And when he pulls back, just for a breath, his forehead rests against yours, and you realize your legs are shaking. His thumb strokes your cheek like he’s trying to anchor you there, keep you from floating away.

“You taste like fire,” he murmurs against your lips, voice hoarse and almost reverent.

And then he kisses you again—harder this time. Hungrier.

Like he doesn’t care who’s watching.

Like he’s waited a lifetime for this.

Like he’ll burn the whole world down if you ever pull away.

He pulls back just long enough to whisper against your lips, “Come with me.”

You stumble into the inn room, your bodies tangled together as they make their way towards the bed. Eddie doesn't bother to stop kissing you even as he strips off his shirt and tosses it aside. His fingers deftly work open your buttons, revealing skin that's already flushed from desire.

As you fall onto the mattress, Eddie rolls you over so he can pin you beneath him. His hips grind against yours in a slow circle, building pressure and tension until you feel like you're going to combust from need.

"You're so beautiful when you're angry," he growls into your ear before nipping at your lobe with his teeth.

Eddie's fingers dig into your skin as he kisses his way down your back, leaving a trail of gentle bites and nips in wake. He starts at the base of your neck, working his way down to the curve of your spine, where he pauses to drop tiny kisses on either side of the vertebrae.

As he reaches the small of your back, his hands slide around to cup your buttocks, squeezing gently before releasing. He gives them a few soft slaps, making you jump with surprise.

He then wraps his arms around you waist and pulls you close, dipping low enough that you feel like you're being pulled over him rather than up against him. As you settle into this position, Eddie drops to one knee behind you and begins to kiss along the crease where thigh meets buttock.

The sensation is almost too much for you can't help but feel overwhelmed by the intensity of Eddie's touch. You're acutely aware of every movement he makes - every brush of lips against skin or stroke of hand through hair - and it leaves you feeling breathless and wanting more.

Eddie continues to kiss and nuzzle his way along your backside, his fingers digging gently into the flesh as he explores every inch of you. You can feel him trembling with desire, his body straining against yours in a way that makes you feel like you're being consumed by him.

As he reaches the base of your spine once more, Eddie pauses for a moment before dipping low enough to claim your ass with his mouth. The sensation is electric - it's like nothing you've ever experienced before - and it leaves you feeling helpless but for one thing: wanting more.

As Eddie's tongue dips into the crease of your buttocks, you can't help but feel a shiver run down your spine. He's teasing you, drawing out the anticipation before finally giving in to his desires. You feel his warm breath on your skin as he pauses for a moment, savoring the sensation of being so close to you.

Then, without warning, he dives in with gusto. His tongue is like a flame that sets fire to every nerve ending it touches. It's slow and deliberate at first, tracing the curves of your ass and then dipping lower to explore the tender flesh between your folds. You can feel him licking up every drop of moisture that gathers there, his tongue darting back and forth with an intensity that leaves you gasping for air.

As he continues to eat at you like a starving man at a feast, you start to bend forward slightly, trying to give him better access. Your body is responding instinctively now - it knows exactly what Eddie wants from it - and before long you're practically folded in half over his head.

Eddie takes full advantage of this new position, his tongue and lips working in tandem to drive you wild. He's eating at you like a man possessed, his movements rough and primal as he tries to consume every last drop of your desire. You can feel him trembling with need, his body straining against yours as he tries to get closer.

As the sensations build inside you, you start to feel like you're going to explode from the sheer intensity of it all. Eddie's mouth is everywhere - on your ass, between your cheeks, even dipping down into the crease where thigh meets buttock, on your pussy, in your pussy - and yet somehow it still feels like there's more than just this one spot that needs attention.

You try to push back against him, trying to give him better access or maybe just trying to slow things down a little bit. But Eddie won't be deterred - he's too far gone now for anything but pure unadulterated pleasure. He keeps licking and sucking at you until finally - oh so sweetly - he gives in and lets out a low groan of satisfaction.

Eddie's hands wrap around your waist, pulling you back onto the bed, rolls you over as he climbs on top of you. He claims your neck with a firm bite, his teeth sinking deep into the tender skin before releasing with a soft pop.

As he lowers himself down, his eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch in your throat. His fingers brush against the delicate chain around your neck, and for a moment it seems like he's going to rip it off again. But instead, he simply wraps his hand around it once more and gives it a gentle tug before moving lower.

His fingers dance across the fabric of his pants, slowly undoing the belt and revealing inches of thick, veined cock beneath. The sight is almost too much to take in - Eddie's body is honed from years of hard work and dedication to fitness, but there's something primal about this moment that makes you feel like you're staring at something truly wild.

He doesn't bother with finesse or subtlety as he pulls out his cock and holds it up like a trophy. It's long and thick and pulsing with desire, and for a moment you can't help but feel like you're staring at something truly magnificent.

Eddie's eyes never leave yours as he moves back up the bed, his cock bobbing gently in the air. He dips down to claim your breasts, his mouth closing around them with a soft suction that makes you shiver.

He teases out each nipple in turn, rolling them between his fingers before pinching them hard enough to make you gasp. His tongue darts out to lick away any tears or whimpers that might escape your lips, leaving behind a trail of saliva and need.

As he continues to feast on your breasts, Eddie's hands move lower still. He cups your belly button with one hand while using the other to massage your thighs. The sensation is almost too much - it's like being wrapped in a warm blanket on a cold winter night.

He just keeps going down.

Eddie's tongue darts in and out of your pussy like a snake slithering through the grass, leaving a trail of wetness and desire in its wake. He sucks gently at first, his mouth closing around your folds like a warm hug on a cold day. But as he continues to feast on your sweetness, his suction grows stronger, pulling harder and harder until you can feel herself getting closer and closer to the edge.

His fingers join the party soon after, slipping inside you with ease as if they've been there before. They dance against the walls of your channel, rubbing against that sensitive spot deep within that makes your shiver with pleasure. The pressure builds and builds until you're sure you'll burst apart at any moment.

But Eddie isn't done yet. Oh no, he's just getting started. He runs his tongue around your clit in slow circles, each pass sending shockwaves through your body like an electric current coursing through wires. "You taste so good I needed to taste you again" becomes "I'm going to eat your pussy all day long" as he laps at you with reckless abandon.

He's a master of the tongue, using every trick in the book to drive you wild. He flicks it against your G-spot, then darts it back and forth across your clit like a madman. The sounds you make are music to his ears - moans, gasps, and pleas for more all blend together into a symphony of desire.

As he continues to ravage your pussy with his mouth and fingers, Eddie can feel himself getting harder by the second. His cock is throbbing with need now, begging him to take things further. But for now, he's content to just keep eating away at this sweet little treat until you come screaming his name…

Eddie's eyes never leave yours as he positions himself between your legs, his cock throbbing with anticipation. He takes a moment to tease you, rubbing the head of his dick against your pussy lips before finally sinking inside. The sound that escapes yours is music to his ears - a low moan of pleasure and need.

He begins to move slowly at first, each stroke deliberate and calculated to drive you wild. His hips flex and twist as he pounds into you, the friction building until you're gasping for air. Eddie can feel himself getting lost in the sensation, his own pleasure growing with every passing second.

As they settle into a rhythm, Eddie starts to pick up speed. His strokes become harder and faster, sending waves of ecstasy crashing through their bodies like tsunamis on shore. You wrap herself around him like a vice, holding him close as he buries himself deep within you again and again.

The room around them fades away - all that exists is this primal connection between two people consumed by desire. Sweat drips from your faces as you writhe together on the bed, your bodies moving in perfect sync. Eddie can feel himself getting closer and closer to the edge, his orgasm building like a storm on the horizon.

Eddie's powerful strokes drive deeper into you, his cock a piston pumping in and out of your pussy with reckless abandon. Your legs wrap around him like a vice again, holding him close as he buries himself to the hilt within you. The sound of your bodies slapping together is like thunder on a summer day, growing louder and more intense with every passing moment.

Eddie's hips flex and twist, his body undulating like a snake as he pounds into you. His balls slap against your hips with each stroke, the sensation sending shivers down his spine.

And then it hits - a wave of pleasure so intense it threatens to consume him whole. His vision blurs and his senses fade away as he comes hard inside you. The feeling is almost too much to bear - it's like being electrocuted by pure bliss.

He holds still for an instant, savoring the sensation before slowly withdrawing from your warm embrace. As he pulls free from between your legs, a stream of cum erupts from the tip of his cock, shooting high into the air like a fountain. It lands with a soft splat on your belly, leaving behind a trail of creamy white goodness.

Eddie's eyes never leave yours as he gazes down at you, his chest heaving with exertion. He can feel himself getting softer by the second, but his gaze remains locked on yours - it's like they're connected by some unseen force. For an instant, time stands still as they simply look at each other…

It doesn't take long for Eddie to fall asleep, his arms wrapped around your waist, his warm breath on the back of your neck. He's probably at his most vulnerable right now, and so are you. You have one chance to seize this opportunity, maybe you can take the dagger from his pants pocket on the floor and plunge it right through his heart, or you can quietly slip out of this room and disappear as quickly as possible, before he wakes up.

And maybe you'll just stay there, in his arms.

Will you make your own destiny, or will you stay where fate has brought you? dividers: @/thecutestgrotto

[blueblossomrose]

I adore you! Your Twisted Parents series is amazing and never fails to cheer me up.

While I have you I would like your opinion on someone, Baul our favourite grumpy great-grandpa.

Do you think he mellowed out a bit after Sebek and Reader had kids? I like to think he would be similar to my great-grandpa, grumpy to everyone except me.

This is part of the Twisted Parents Series.

Content: Post-canon, fluffy, fem!afab!MC, family n children, MC is married to Sebek, mentions of war and other things (it's about Baul Zigvolt), maybe spoilers for book 7 (MAYBE).

Note(s): This request took as long as the others and trust me when I say it wasn't my intention for it to take so long 😔 thanks for the lovely words and the ask! 🥰😭❤️ <33

Comments and reblogs are very welcome ♡

At the beginning of Sebek and MC's relationship, he wasn't happy about it at all.

He was sure he had raised his grandson so that he would not repeat the mistake his daughter made, and in Sebek's childhood he had gone easy on him, but now he was an adult and still hadn't learned anything? Of course, this is all from Baul's point of view.

But this is nothing that Sebek hadn't anticipated before. Before the first family dinner where you would meet Baul (in the flesh and not in a dream), Sebek said everything he had to say and made it clear that no matter what his grandfather said, Sebek would never give up on being with you. Because he loves you.

So, you were already completely shielded. It didn't make the situation any less uncomfortable. At least Sebek's parents, siblings and Sebek himself did everything possible and impossible to intercept certain unfortunate speeches from Baul.

The years were tough, and I dare say that Baul only began to soften towards MC after the wedding. It finally dawned on him that Sebek was completely in love. And happy.

Give the old man some time. As soon as he realizes that Sebek is truly happy, he stops being rude, he realizes that there is no point in that.

About him mellowed to his great-grandchildren... that totally happens. No arguments.

The announcement of MC's pregnancy was enough to make the old fae awake and secretly (he thinks it's secretly but in reality you can see the joy on his face) happy.

He would love his great-grandchildren no matter what form they took, and that's how it happens.

Ivan was born with more fae DNA than Amelie, and does that influence the way Baul loves his grandchildren? NOT AT ALL. He absolutely loves them both.

Baul is a bit like Sebek in this regard. He really believes that no one notices how much he has softened. He thinks he is very discreet in how he shows his love for the new members of the Zigvolt family, but to anyone who looks at him, it is obvious.

As stated here, Baul has EXTENSIVE discussions with his son-in-law when it comes to holding the children. Even though Sebek's father insists that he has as much right as Baul because he IS THE grandfather, Baul will still complain.

Baul accompanies Sebek to most training sessions to make sure he is teaching Ivan well.

Just as Sebek lowered his voice around Amelie, it's jarring to hear Baul's whispery when he speaks to her.

In fact, to get to this point, Baul was forced to evolve a lot up a way before. With Sebek's years of courtship and marriage, it was a process of opening minds that he had refused to do with his daughter, for example. As if it was all very recent after the war, and he was absurdly furious with the idea that only frustration dominated his mind. He refused to try to think differently.

But as we saw in book 7, he had already softened a bit with the birth of Sebek. Then came Ivan and Amelie, and the man was completely laid up.

Sebek doesn't know who is worse at spoiling these children: Mr. Zigvolt or Baul.

Lilia finds it all very amusing when she hears it from [Name] or Mrs. Zigvolt's mouth. He totally teases Baul afterwards.

During Ivan's birth, he was busy at a council meeting for Briar Valley's ex-soldiers. But it only took a single message (probably sent by old-fashioned magical means) from Mrs. Zigvolt about the boy's birth for Baul to simply disappear from the meeting room. 7 minutes later he burst into the small clinic, asking where his grandson was.

Amelie's birth had been smoother so none of this was necessary, but he would do it again without a second thought.

Family activities with old Baul include: camping, mountain hiking, fencing lessons, and of course... barbecuing. Oh, and horseback riding, too.

At the end of all this, even if he doesn't open his mouth to verbalize it, he doesn't even need to, because all the family members know that deep down, Baul is very happy to have formed a big and loving family. Even with humans in the middle.

© blueblossomrose 2025 , I do not allow copying/plagiarism of any of my fanfics.

[sunsetcupid]

GREEN WITH ENVY ; F1 GRID.

synopsis: When you find out that your celebrity crush is coming to the paddock, it is only natural that your boyfriend reacts a certain way, be it possessive or ostentatiously charming.

trigger warnings: Use of feminine pronouns from the reader’s perspective; Descriptions of romantic acts and behaviors; Suggestive remarks; Mentions of abandonment

a message from the author: I think that the drivers would be so funny in this situation! (Note: I added Daniel Ricciardo, though he technically isn’t a driver anymore. *Sobs loudly*) More “what-if” situations coming soon!

ISACK HADJAR

He doesn’t act insecure. In fact, he acts more confident than usual. Puffing up his chest, pulling you closer to him, definitely using more physical touch and a lot of pet names.

You can see how his demeanor changes as soon as your celebrity crush pays attention to you. He’s not outwardly possessive; he knows that even as your boyfriend, he doesn’t own you, but he still doesn’t like the “greedy way” the celebrity is eyeing you.

He over analyzes everything – from the greeting you give them to how you squeal when they say that they’re a big fan of yours. 

You have to comfort him later that night, running your fingers through his curls in the idle manner he absolutely adores. “Nobody is as amazing or perfect as you. Not even Timothee Chalamet.”

OSCAR PIASTRI

He hates being called icy, but that’s exactly how he acts when he finds out the news. Yeah, so what if your number-one celebrity crush is visiting the paddock? You’re his girlfriend, and no hot shot from Hollywood could ever take you away from him. 

Yet the doubt still worms its way in. Especially when he sees just how flustered you become, cheeks burning and words a quick stammer, and he has the sudden urge to have a passionate make out session with you in front of them. Modesty? Gone.

He makes you wear his jersey – a papaya-colored one with his last name inked on in bright black letters. Just so they’re aware.

LANCE STROLL

He’s not worried at all. Instead, he’s the epitome of a “cool guy”. You’re surprised he’s not behaving weirdly, but you’re too embarrassed to ask. Later, you cave, and he says, “They’re meaningless to me. We’ve been dating for years now; you would have left already if you wanted to.”

Despite this, however, he still leans in close to you, blocking the celebrity off from getting too close. You love it. Lance is not a particularly controlling guy, but those little movements? Chef’s kiss.

Afterwards, Lance orders a big bouquet of flowers and surprises you with a new stack of books that had been on your wishlist. “Do you think that they know you as well as I do? That they love you as much as I do?”

LANDO NORRIS

“I’m going to tattoo ‘Lando Norris’s girlfriend’ on your head while you’re sleeping.” Lando warns you the night before the celebrity is due to arrive. You know he’s joking, but you can barely sleep – from both the threat and the excitement. 

He turns into the most boastful, overly friendly person known to mankind. Loud laughter, rapid-fire jokes, anything to distract the celebrity from you. He even slaps the celebrity on the back, so forcefully they start coughing. (You almost started crying from laughing so hard.)

Adding onto this, he gets super competitive. He starts comparing accomplishments (“Was he in the running for the 2024 Driver’s Championship? I didn’t think so.”) to even the height difference (“I’m like ten centimeters taller than him! Do you want to date a garden gnome?”). It’s hilarious.

CHARLES LECLERC

He becomes quieter, more subdued. Rather than being bolder and more outgoing, he lets you spend time with the celebrity – though he’s fully aware of how long you’ve been crushing over them. 

While you’re chatting it up, you can hear him muttering in French. Not even curse words, just sentences like, “Who does he think he is? He’s like a peacock, trying so obviously to flirt with her. She’s mine.”

You buy matching outfits to wear to quell his nerves, albeit Charles not vocalizing any of his fears – that you might decide he wasn’t good enough for you and run away forever. (A foolish delusion, because no one was better than Charles Leclerc.)

DANIEL RICCIARDO

When he finds out, he immediately throws on a dramatic act. “I’m going to be abandoned! You’ll be disgusted with me as soon as you lay eyes on them, and you’ll leave me forever!” The only way to get him to be quiet was to kiss him, and that turned into something a lot more steamy…(Not that you’re complaining!)

Before the celebrity arrives, he starts drilling you. “So, you like him because of their chiseled abs? Their humor? Their accent? I have to be prepared, baby. I don’t want them whisking you away.” You roll your eyes, but secretly, you’re in heaven. It’s so hard to make Daniel jealous, but this is the perfect way to do it. Or so you thought…

…Because the celebrity becomes quick friends with Daniel. Of course he does; Daniel’s personality is magnetic and full of charm. Later, Daniel kisses you on the forehead right as you’re snuggling into bed, and says, “You have an amazing taste in men, baby. He’s awesome.”

Credits: Dividers — @sisterlucifergraphics

[katmikaelsendevotee]

( www.smalltownreality.com )

„you ever notice how they only come for the festival, then just leave?” „good for them.”

the ever, enigmatic town in oregon; far point. founded in 1789, pop. 10,839. far point, condescendingly called “dead point” by it’s young inhabitants. yet, still known as the town full of heart, with a big secret. best known for it’s renowned halloween festivals they have every year. to which, many foreigners come usually just for the festival. the town has more than two festivals for other holidays, but they aren’t as popular as their halloween festival. just like any other small town where everyone knows each other’s secrets, far point isn’t so different. now, why is it called far point? it’s named that due to it’s coastal setting, far away from any near cities or bigger towns. ergo; far point. you’d think this place is quiet, peaceful, calm. wrong. it’s a weird, loud (loud people who reside there) town, people notice things in the forest. not just any things, odd, kind’ve suspicious type of stuff. yet anyone who tries to speak out about their experience, nobody tends to believe. even the conspiracy theorist of the town. as if everyone’s on in on some big secret, yet nobody is.

another reason far point is known to attract outsiders; it has not one, but two private academies. farr vision academy and riverbank academy, these two academies are rivals. adversaries. while farr vision specializes in science & arts, riverbank specializes in athletics. riverbank’s swim team has been to nationals three years in a row (‘83, ‘82’, ‘81) they plan to add another year this year, summer of ‘84. both schools are located on opposite sides of far point. riverbank being near the coast, that being so; riverbank. every year, there is an ongoing tradition where both school’s football team and cheerleaders go against (in a match) each other. not even for any tournaments, it’s usually set up by both school’s student council. with a little help from both schools staff. shall we get to introducing farr vision’s & riverbanks’ academies best students?

farr vision’s head cheerleader, outstanding student council president, representing farr vision:

esfj 6w5 EMELIA LAFAY. head cheerleader of farr vision. a bit misunderstood. sweetest girl in far point. sixteen years old.

riverbank’s flamboyant, brilliant representing student for riverbank, who has a knack for science:

entp 6w7 PENELOPE “PENNY” HARTFORD. riverbank’s rebellious science nerd. witty. sixteen years old. a lover of the moon and stars.

someone else, who’s been upping her popularity ranks (not literally. she’s a loner in reality.) in farr vision academy, you’ve probably heard of her, she’s weird. RJ jacobsen, awkward, a bit cocky, and always seen with a camera. why is she being mentioned? well… she’s recently been seen with the town’s popular girl (one of them atleast), SERENA GRYMES. everyone found it odd, RJ’s usually seen with her bestfriend autumn, not odd. but serena grymes? shocker.

speaking of her, who is serena grymes? think of it like this, she isn’t even a cheerleader yet the whole town knows her. she goes to parties, occasionally leaves far point on a vacay with her family. boys want her. everyone wants her, actually. yet, she’s elusive. a bit cynical. unpredictable. independent. free-spirited. extremely smart. those are common words people would use to describe her. she’s farr vision’s best student, but she’s not in the student council, though emelia lafay is constantly nagging her to join, serena to which, doesn’t want to ::

enfp 7w8 SERENA GRYMES. girl next door. dyes her hair every week. seventeen years old.

istp 5w4 RJ JACOBSEN. farr vision’s eccentric wallflower, youngest of 9. sixteen years old. attentive. learning how to play drums. RJ has her eyes on someone, who? she’ll never tell.

estj 6w7 AUTUMN LOCKHART. RJ jacobsen’s bestfriend, plays bass. secretly loves vampire related things. turning seventeen in a few months.

recently, RJ jacobsen & autumn lockhart have been seen skipping classes, later seen with farr vision’s school reporter. connie taylor-green.

estj 3w4 CONNIE TAYLOR-GREEN. farr vision’s school reporter. can come off as slightly vain. eighteen years old.

there’s… a couple more reasons why people would say far point is outlandish. someone came up as missing a few years back, sometime in the 70s. a guy, he went missing for a month or two, he was found, alive. nobody has a clue what happened to him, not even the guy himself. you wanna know where he was the day he went missing? far point’s halloween maze. october 31st, 1971. weird right? he was found at a completely different location, in the woods, unconscious. guy definitely needed some therapy after that. but, he recalls something else, something deep in the woods, he said something along the lines of an… “alien.”

far point’s soundtrack. or more-so RJ jacobsens.

I. ✶. white wedding - pt. 1 . billy idol

II. ✶. i ran (so far away) . a flock of seagulls

III. ✶. i think we’re alone now . tiffany

IV. ✶. 1979 . the smashing pumpkins

V. ✶. lips like sugar . echo & the bunnymen

VI. ✶. somebody’s watching me . rockwell

VII. ✶. the promise . when in rome

VIII. ✶. everything she wants . wham!

IX. ✶. girls just want to have fun . cyndi lauper

X. ✶. don’t dream it’s over . crowded house

[ribbonmage]

H, I was wondering if you can do a requested oneshot out of my fav ship along with their matching skins, if so can i please ask for a...

Yandere! Alien! Paycheck x Human! Reader )the reader has a passion for the galaxy and outer space and also likes Aliens)

The reader is a researcher in astronomy and sometimes bullied for her passion in aliens but at least they have a pet at home (it can any pet btw)

but one night, a space ship containing both elliot and chance crashes in their yard and the reader helps them despite not understanding their language.

As time went by, the duo stalked them and decided to kidnap the reader and their per and turning them into an alien too by whatever substance or technogy they use.

matbe some fluff at the end.

Ty

YAN!ALIEN!PAYCHECK X HUMAN!READER

ogh i love those skins … i rlly luv chance and elliot so <33

The stars in the sky always made you fascinated about space and the universe as a whole.

it made you wonder everyday, is there anyone out there? it might be silly to believe in the concept of aliens, but the vast expanse and possibilities of the universe made you think otherwise. surely, there’s alot more?

well, alot of people didn’t really agree with you. but atleast you had your cat, cosmo.

one night, you sat alone in your living room, and then..

BOOM!

a large sound coming from your backyard could be heard, catching your attention.

confused, you decided to check it out only to see a large metal-like object in the hole of dirt. is that a damn ufo?

a door opened, two figures appeared. they looked peculiar, green skin with round antennae, and a clothing style that you haven’t seen before.

they looked in your direction, and froze, as well as you.

“ uhh, who are you?” you tried asking them, making their heads tilt to the side.

one of them, wearing a visor tried talking back, only for it to be unintelligible for you, in a language you’ve never even heard of or been mentioned before.

they made no moves of implied hostility as of now, so you invited them both inside.

to be honest, you were pretty excited but damn nervous at the same time. aliens? you almost felt like you could explode.

it looked like they didn’t have anywhere to go, so you decided to let them live with you, like roommates.

you tried teaching them about customs and such, turns out they’re pretty good learners.

after a few weeks of living with you, they started picking up on your human behavior, being able to make hand signs and signals to talk with you, so now you could atleast hold a few conversations properly.

you found out that their names, or what they wanted to be called by, were elliot and chance.

elliot loved cooking, so he would often watch or read human cooking tutorials. (with your help on how to figure out how to use a phone)

and chance, they quickly took interest in cards, since you showed him how to play since you didn’t know what to do. and they loved messing around, mainly with you.

after a while, you all started warming up to each other. you told them about your fascinations in astronomy and the universe, and they sat all the while to listen.

they began to become more and more clingy than your first interactions, elliot always leaning his head on your shoulder, and chance always having an arm around your shoulder, messing and teasing around with you with that smug grin of theirs.

you thought it was unusual at first, but you didn’t ask about it or let go. you started giving them the same amounts of affection, as well.

they only got more affectionate, possessive, even.

they enjoyed your company, they really did.

one night. as you slept, your door creaked open, pools of light from the hall being blocked by two figures as they entered your room.

you awoke, finding yourself in an unfamiliar place. you stood up, your heart beating quicker in fear and surprise.

the lights opened, revealing elliot and chance with smiles on their faces.

“ah, you’re awake!” elliot walks over to you, now right infront of you as chance stood beside him, basically caging you with the both of them.

you were confused, really confused.

“you must be confused, but don’t worry!” chance pulls out a small mirror, facing it towards your face. you looked just like the both of them, antennae and all, but how?

“now that you’re one of us, we can finally be together!” they both hugged you from your sides, engulfing you with their affectionate gestures.

maybe this isn’t so bad after all, since you basically reciprocated them both.